


A curse of the times

by SoapyPasta



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Exorcisms, Ghost Hunting, Human!Ryan, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Angst, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Vampires, actual communication, and general angst, it's crazy, like Shane uses actual words, there's also some smoochin', vampire!Shane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 73,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoapyPasta/pseuds/SoapyPasta
Summary: There are definitely fangs where his normal incisors should be, but having a sharper set of teeth doesn't make him a monster.The blood running down his chest does.Or; Shane is a vampire and Ryan is bound to find out sooner or later.





	1. Perfer et obdura

**Author's Note:**

> Mild gore and body horror.
> 
> If you have any feedback or know if any of my translations are wrong I'd appreciate a comment!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perfer et obdura:  
(Latin;)  
\- Be patient and tough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to @rossieash for the translations and encouragement!

He doesn't remember most of his human life, which is understandable given how many centuries he's lived. What he does remember comes back in flashes, dreams, all a little twisted, skewed, words muddled, settings discoloured, faces blurred.

There are some things he'll never forget though, even if they come back as fragments, hazes at first because, well, who forgets their first exorcism? Shane certainly hasn't.

She was crying, shaking, trembling as she dragged him, "diabeł, diabeł, diabeł!", _demon, demon, demon!_ She held him by the back of his collar, dragging him into the church.

He was screaming and kicking, clawing at his mother's hand. The floor he was dragged against was dirty, though that could be said for most things in his town, dirty, aged, muddy. A curse of the times, he figures. Nothing lingers in his mind quite like the smell of that church though, the smell that keeps him up at night because its right there, as if he's being dragged through the mud again, frayed boots flying out the claw against the dirt and cobble, desperate to create some kind of resistance. Desperate to fight back. It'd smelt like rotting wood, damp like rain and something a little sharper, like a hearty red wine.

He'd woken to that a few times too, as he did that night, the heels of his feet scrambling against the mattress, trying to dig into something, anything to stop the sensation of being dragged, his back and legs burning with the sensation of friction, being pulled across rocks and stone mercilessly. The smell always lingered, for hours after he'd woke. "to nie jest mój syn" _this is not my son_. She repeated that until the ringing in his ears drown it out, and likely carried on after.

_No, this is wrong, so so wrong_ he'd wanted to scream, wanted to beg, to plead with his mother, but his throat wouldn't let him, clogged with the pain of another sob. It hurt to breathe for weeks afterwards. He couldn't have been a day over thirteen, his legs kicking out again and again desperately against the cool stones beneath is feet because he was just a child, a damn child and this was wrong, so wrong.

What were they going to do to him? 

"mamo, nie, proszę" he'd tried to beg, to plead, _mama, no please,_ "proszę nie", _please no._

"dziwoląg," _monster, freak, monstrosity,_ he'd overheard his mother say to the priest, "niemożliwe," _impossible, awful. _Those words, he'd never forget those, he'd heard them plenty of times from other children his age, but from his mother, said so bitterly in a church with fear, real fear burning through her throat, shaking itself out with every word, it buried itself in his mind.

"potwór," _monster_.

Was he really that different, was he really a monster?

"jesteśmy przeklęci," _we are cursed._

Had he really caused his family this much anguish from just being born?

"naczynie diabła,"_ the devil's vessel._ The priest had said.

_diabelskie - the fucking devil?_ he'd thought bitterly, because _really?_ It was so, stupid, they'd always thought he was cursed, everyone being suspicious around him, some of the older locals avoiding him completely. His family though, they were never like that, they always appreciated him - called him special rather than different, or a freak. Shane would accept that it was a little weird, a 6ft tall thirteen-year-old in a century where most men grew to around 5'3", but it was a natural anomaly, if anything a sign of good health in their poor little village. It should've been seen as a blessing, a sign of hope. His parents could see it like that until the sleepwalking started, it was then an old woman had managed to convince his mother he was cursed, that he was some devil spawn or something. All because he'd walked out into the street a few times, eyes shut and jaw slack, something that'd be seen as a sign of stress, or simply something hereditary in today's society. But no,_ diabeł_, he was different, and therefore, he was evil.

It was a week later, when the sleepwalking hadn't stopped and he was dragged out of bed and down the street, half-dazed, awoken by the scrapping on his back and his mother's incoherent muttering about devils and evil. He'd thought briefly, that if anyone had seen them then, she would've been the one accused of possession. Her body trembling, her words not forming real sentences, tears blending into sweat along her dirtied skin. Maybe if someone had been awake on that street, if it hadn't have been the priest alone in that church, maybe it would've been her._ If only_, he thinks, a thought he no longer lets himself feel guilty for.

_Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim,_ a Latin idiom, a phase he held with him, the only words playing behind his closed eyes as he screamed_, be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you_, he'd never spoken much Latin, other than in prayer, but those words were taught to him by his grandmother one night while he was only eight. She must've known then, he figured, known that she wouldn't wake up in the morning. He didn't quite understand it, but in that church five years later he did, and he'd remembered it every day since.

It didn't stop his pleading at the time though, the desperate "proszę nie," after every shuddery breath, "przestań." _Please no, stop._ They were the only words he could manage as he was pinned down, tied into the chair with rope a little too tight around his wrists. "O mój Jezu, przebacz nam nasze grzechy," the ramblings of some prayer he no longer remembers the last thing to slip out his lips before the dirty cloth is forced into the wedge of his mouth.

He shakes his head frantically, sobbing violently and tugging at the ropes with all he's got because _nie nie nie, proszę nie. No no no, please no. _He so desperately wants to scream_ 'it's me, please, I'm your son, your son!',_ he remembers thinking that if he could just meet his mothers eyes he could convey that but her eyes are somewhere far off, tears running silently down her cheeks, he finds a small comfort in the fact she's suffering too. He no longer feels guilty for thinking that either.

It's them the rambling starts, some Latin prayer that falls foreign on his ears, followed by the harsh singing of metal into flame and his heart falters in his chest, _'nie nie nie. No no no, because this isn't fair, I'm not some demon, I'm your son, it's me, please, please look at me. Mama proszę, please.'_ All he can do though is cry, letting the sight in front of him blur away as his shirt is torn open. It's then he feels it, a pain that burns so hot it's cold, freezing his chest and every nerve spreading out from it, his eyes flying open, his jaw almost unhinged in a silent scream _Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim_ he thinks to himself, over and over again, _be patient_, he warns himself, _be tough_.

It's too much though, it's all too much as he tugs relentlessly at his pinned down arms, sobbing and screaming muffled curses into the cloth in his mouth that tastes uncomfortably like blood and sweat. He figures, right there, to an outsider he would've looked demonic, sweating and crying and screaming as the priest's voice raises chanting words Shane isn't sure even are real words. He presses harder, the smell of burning skin making Shane heave as he doesn't dare look down the burning, the impossible pain spreading across the length of his chest.

The priest pulls away and only then Shane wills himself to look down. He gags again into the rag, dry heaving something that almost sounds like a laugh at the skin, pink and black and red and burnt, at the large fleshy cross brandished across his chest and he almost misses it with all the ringing in his ears but he hears it. "Dominus vobiscum." _The Lord be with you,_ in the priest's unforgiving tone from somewhere behind Shane and then he really does laugh, something rough and almost inhuman clawing its way up to his torn throat, caught on the rag still torturing his tastebuds because, what kind of Lord, what kind of a _God_ would condone this torture?

He doesn't really know what he should be feeling at this point, he's still crying, uncontrollably so but he doesn't exactly feel sad, betrayed maybe, exhausted, but not sad. The laughter he can't suppress suggests he should feel happy, or maybe bitter but neither of those come close. The burning at his chest tells him to feel pain, but that stopped making its way to his brain minutes ago, it's just numbness now. Then the priest reappears in front of him, Shane watches through tear-locked eyes as the man watches the rise and fall of Shane's butchered chest for a second, seemingly thinking. That's when Shane realises the priest's hands aren't empty, and he knows exactly what he's feeling -- _fear_, he's just not quite sure what about the items in the priest's hands he should fear.

In the one hand was a cup, presumably filled some liquid Shane can't see through the opaque container. On the other hand, palm splayed out, is a chunky white powder Shane vaguely recognises to be salt, a commodity his family couldn't afford. He frowns, because_ what the hell?_ Before he can read too much into it the priest is chanting again, something foreign that Shane still thinks is completely made up, but what does he know? He wants to protest, to say something but then cold water hits his face and his chest and- _oh fuck_, his chest.

He screams out again as a wave of agony reignites within him because it burns, of course it burns, he's pretty sure anything touching his chest would burn, why wouldn't it burn? Then he catches the smug smirk on the priests face, as though he's caught the sobbing boy out on something and then he realises it for what it is. _Holy water._ Shane feels a rage bubbling up inside him as he'd never felt before because how is that _proof_ to this guy? Anyone would've reacted like that, _anyone_, because water can hit sharp when it's thrown like that, especially when its tossed onto _burning flesh_.

The anger he feels swells over his pain a lot faster than it should and Shane feels just about capable of murder, which he'd laugh at if it wasn't for the burning rage inside of him because wasn't this guy trying to chase the evil _out_ of him?

_Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim_, he reminds himself again, _be patient,_ _tough_.

It's at that point a feeling seers through his veins that never truly leaves him, an agony his body can't even comprehend as the priest's hand rubs roughly into his chest, the salt setting fire to his brandished skin and turning his vision white because people weren't built to handle pain like this. He does the only thing he can think to do before his vision betrays him completely and his conscious slips away to a place he's unsure it ever fully returns from. He looks to his mother, attempts in vain to reach out to her, he's not sure the '_Mama proszę, please_, _please, please mama'_ even passes his lips this time, it doesn't even have to he opportunity to be muffled out by the rag, it's gone as though he'd never spoke it, thought it as his eyes land on her. She's still not looking at him, her tears all dried up, unlike his as they stream down his face with a renewed passion.

'_Just look at me mamo, please,_' he thinks, and for a second he lets himself believe that she somehow heard it because as soon as he thinks it her eyes squeeze shut and her head turns away entirely.

That's the last thing he sees before his world slips away. It's morning when he wakes up again, on his bed two days later, his mom sat across the room, watching him but not entirely seeing.

The pain crashes over him before he can will himself to speak and he briefly wonders how a living person can feel this much pain without dying.

He glances down, cloth wrapped tightly around his chest but he can see the liquid seeping through, he swallows, pretty sure he'll gag if he stares any longer and his gaze meets his mothers figure again. She's just sat there and it comes on again, the irrational anger he'd felt in the church - _or maybe it's entirely rational?_ Anyone would be angry, _somewhere in between then?_ Three centuries later and he still isn't entirely sure about that one - it swelled in his stomach, tugging on his chest and drowning out any other feelings in his head.

He stood, his legs wobbling and giving way at his first try, leaving him trembling on the floor, not even drawing a glance from his mother. He could feel the anger burning at the corner of his eyes and this time he stood, with the support of the wall and found what he was looking for. It was blunt and rusty from underuse because to be able to cut up food they'd have to be able to afford anything that didn't have the texture of an undisclosed mush. Still, it felt good in his hand, weighted and cool and he doesn't even question how indifferent he begins to feel, his anger quelling. He doesn't even question the way she doesn't move, doesn't look at him, until her last breath.

Then he feels again, so fast, like a tidal wave hitting him right in the face because, what has he done? He doesn't let himself drop to his knees and cry, mourn no matter how badly he wants to. Instead, he grabs the few shirts that he owns, along with the small chunk of stale bread that sits on their makeshift table and he just leaves. He's not entirely sure where he's going, just that he's going away. Away from the church, away from his family, away from Poland. So when a strange man offers him refuge to Russia in exchange for the cleanest looking shirt he owns and the shoes off his feet he blindly accepts.

It's fifty years later before he steps foot back in Poland, just over thirty years after he'd turned so it shocks him a little when he walks into the little village that used to be his own and sees the church stood there looking exactly as it did the night he was dragged into it. It's eerie. Even more so when he notices the figure stood outside, preaching, a spitting image of the priest that '_exorcised_' him, except younger, with a slightly smaller nose and hair that was a shade too light. His son, Shane figures, a thought that's confirmed when the young man refers to himself as Chmielowski. The same name the other priest had gone by.

He almost walks away when he hears it "upiór", _vampire_, the word catches him off guard before he realises the priest isn't talking to Shane and instead to the congregation that has formed around him. He frowns, stopping to listen. He spoke mainly in English, "the creatures are just demons possessing dead bodies" was the line that stood out to Shane, along with "they are sent as punishment from God".

Shane wasn't a demon, everything the man had said was entirely delusional, yet he was sort of unnerved by it, because quite honestly, he doesn't completely remember how he turned. Sure he remembers the lead-up, or parts of it at least.

He was in Russia when another war broke out - _they'd been having a lot of those_ \- and he was silently thankful he had been drafted. There were no women in the military at that point, which meant there was no opportunity for the awkward '_why won't you take your shirt off?_' conversation he'd been getting so used to with every girlfriend he'd had. That's what he'd thought at least until he'd met Corporal Fedorov, a name which rather ironically meant '_gift from God'_ in Hebrew, or so he'd said. It took him around thirty seconds around this guy to realise he wasn't nearly as straight as he thought he was. He'd hit himself now for not spending more time questioning the fact that after the hour they'd spend '_discussing tactics_' each night he'd come away with bruises along the base of his neck that looked a lot more intense than your average hickey - and ached considerably more too. But, he was having fun and his uniform covered them well enough so, in very Shane fashion he just went with the flow.

What that didn't explain though, was how he woke up one morning fighting for breath only to fill his lungs with dirt and the vile scent of rotting. There was another lingering scent, stale blood, likely coming from the corpses he could see a little too clearly beneath him. He'd never thought he'd sought refuge in the decaying scent of dried blood, yet here he was, licking it off the cold, stiff bodies of his comrades. The memory never came to him, how he'd ended up in a war grave still breathing, craving what the fields above him were likely coated in by now, physically and metaphorically.

"Domine, adiuva me." He'd muttered_, God, help me._

\------------ Present-day -----------

He'd woke with a start, his head shooting upward as his hands cutch aimlessly at his mop of hair. '_Fuck_.' He hadn't dreamed like that in decades. He'd managed to shut out most his past long before he'd ended up in LA, or even Chicago, which is why he'd usually had such a hard time recalling it. That, though, was a hard time for other reasons.

He'd huffed, his back hitting hard against his mattress as he laid back down, noting the dull throbbing in his fist, he'd bitten into it in his sleep, likely to stop his own screaming, if the aching of his throat was anything to go by. That could also be because he hasn't drunk in a few days, but he doesn't have time to dwell on that too much before there's a knock at his apartment door. He groaned, checking his phone and sure enough, he'd slept through three alarms and six missed calls from Ryan. That was a clear sign he shouldn't go in his mind, not that he needs one because he already knew the mistake he'd made agreeing to get an exorcism with Ryan, but he'd seemed so excited and well, how could he say no to an excited looking Ryan?


	2. Dominus vobiscum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominus vobiscum:  
(Latin;)  
\- the Lord be with you
> 
> (If you haven't seen the "we got exorcisms" video they did you should check it out because this is based on that)

Shane's pretty sure he's never gotten ready faster, and he's pretty sure that'll be painfully evident on camera, but, he's not yet conscious enough to care as he slips on the first jacket he could find and tugs open his apartment door.

Ryan is stood there, two coffee cups in hand - _thank God_ \- with an impatient look on his face, that disappears rather abruptly as his eyes meet Shane. "Jesus big guy, ha-have you been crying?"

The way concern takes over his features is almost comical, something Shane would mock if he didn't feel like he could collapse at any minute. Vampires could go roughly two weeks without drinking, at least vampires as old as Shane could, before they start to show the signs, the loss of control. That doesn't explain the dehydrated burning in his throat or the scrapping of dried veins against skin tissue that tells him he needs something other than his thick, dark, nutritionless blood pumping idly through his veins. He's sure that won't be a problem today though, he'll get something to drink tonight, he'll be fine.

"No I'm fine Ryan, just overslept. If you're not careful I'll begin to think you care." He tries to joke, though if anything it sounds bitter, _well fuck_. 

"Of course I care! Would I queue for twenty minutes in Starbucks if I didn't?" He grins, to frailly hide his desperation to defend himself, because of course, he cares, and Shane should know that. Shane does know that, he's just scared, not that he'd admit that to Ryan. He's scared because when Ryan had first told him about the idea for an exorcism video it was just going to be them watching some girl get yelled at by a priest and just maybe he could cope with that. Yesterday though, Ryan had called to tell him the change of plans, they'd still watch Becky's exorcism, but as long as they had time two more exorcisms would be added to the list. His and Ryan's.

His fear is irrational, he tells himself. He's not a demon, he's a vampire and no matter what that old priest said back in Poland there was no connection. There couldn't be, because he's _seen_ demons, he's met the damn Goatman and he's certain there was no correlation between the two of them. Demons are pure, concentrated evil, Shane? He wasn't evil, at least he doesn't think he is. Demons also aren't the prettiest of creatures and well, if Ryan's heart rate around him is any indication Shane figures there must be at least one redeeming quality to the way he looks.

"Are you not even a little excited?" Ryan is the first one to break the silence as the drive toward the church, it'll be the third time Shane has stepped foot in a church since the exorcism that plagued his dreams last night and excited certainly isn't the word he'd use, not even close. He also notes, _a little bitterly_, that he'd successfully managed to avoid churches all together until Ryan walked into his life.

Shane doesn't let his fear slip through his facade, or he doesn't think he does as he turns his gaze away from the window to look at Ryan. Sipping at his still-too-hot coffee he replies with an overly jovial, "hell yeah baby!- should I say hell? Oh no, does that word make me a d-d-d-demon?" He widens his eyes dramatically with a grin, hoping to get under Ryan's skin because, well, it's just kinda fun. Does he really need a reason?

Ryan shakes his head, failing to prevent his laughter as his eyes flicker between Shane and the road, "with how dead you looked this morning when you answered the door I wouldn't be surprised if you turned out to be some kind of ghoul."

Shane lets out an odd chuckle at that, a little too dry, not nearly convincing as he speaks, "wouldn't that make your day, finding out proof of the supernatural has been sat right beside you all this time."

"I think I'd be a little more pissed off than anything," Ryan states, flippantly, as though he's unaware of the weight that statement carries for Shane.

"Huh. Why's that _Boogara_?" He adds the nickname with a dramatic flair to amuse himself more than anything. Because he finds himself funny, even when Ryan doesn't.

"Because were the ghoul boys, we tell each other everything." There's an odd sincerity to that and Shane just hums softly in agreement. He can't muster anything verbal because, _ouch_.

\-------------

It takes being pushed in front of the priest by Ryan after the guy calls out _"who's next?"_ for Shane to realise there's an ulterior motive behind this whole thing. He should've noticed sooner with the way Ryan kept glancing over at him, especially when they'd sat down to talk to the priest and Shane physically flinched at the sight of the cross on the table before them. Ryan's eyes didn't leave him after that and Shane silently wished he could explain, he wished even more that he could just leave without it looking all too suspicious. It should've been clear to him from the start, Ryan thought Shane was a demon, he was testing him. Of course he was, of course he did, because why wouldn't he? He's Ryan "ghoul hunter" Bergara and with the theory of Shane being a demon thrown about by the fans in the comments of every episode, well, of course, he believed it. He's also certain Ryan would've put hours of research into this, likely testing him for things in the office without him even realising. It's concerning, if not admirable how far he'll go to prove his theories.

His admiration for Ryan, and his adamance to prove that he's not some spawn of satan are the only two things that carry him through whatever the situation he'd found himself in was. Though when he steps foot in front of the priest and the guy raises the same cross from the table to around an inch in front of his forehead - a cross that looks eerily like the one etched into his skin all that time ago - it took everything inside of him not to fall to his knees, or to breakdown crying. It wasn't because he was a demon, and he's pretty sure no other vampires react to religious symbols like this - _despite what lore would suggest_ \- no, it was because he felt like a young boy again and the priest doesn't have to lay a hand on him for his nerves to flame up in agony, a painful remembrance of what once was.

He felt the same agony every time he was presented with a cross, he should've been better prepared. _Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim,_ he tells himself again, and then again.

When the priest's hand does lay rest on his forehead though, screaming at non-existent demons to get out, he feels as though he has no control over his own body, his vision going blurry, then a flash of white. He doesn't realise his hearing had briefly stopped until the priest's voice breaks its way through his ears again and he manages to meet his eyes. Is then he swears he hears it, "lamia," _vampire_, but that's not possible because this priest isn't even speaking in Latin, he probably doesn't even know Latin. Then, "sanguisuga" _bloodsucker_, but it's in his head, it has to be because no one reacts, not even Ryan.

The exorcism is over in a flash and suddenly it's Ryan in front of the priest and the look Becky shoots him tells him she _definitely_ noticed something during whatever it was that just happened to him. It takes him sweeping a hand through his hair for him to realise how sweaty he had gotten, maybe that's what she was staring at, but it was hot in here right? Surely it wasn't just him.

They all get interviewed after, Shane mostly makes jokes, though a comment Ryan makes about Shane holding the priests gaze makes him frown because, he doesn't recall that at all. He plays it off for the cameras, hoping they don't catch his confusion in the way Ryan definitely does. During the priest's interview he assures the cameraman that didn't have nearly enough time, and that they definitely need "_serious help_," Shane chooses to ignore the way the priests eyes land on him as he claims that. Ryan doesn't.

Shane finds himself thanking God for the second time that day as they walk down the steps of the church because it's finally over.

His relief doesn't last long as they get to the car though, because as the priest shakes his hand to say goodbye he leans in to mutter a short, "Dominus vobiscum", _Lord be with you_ and he swallows hard because _fuck_, this guy does know Latin. Because _fuck_, if this guy knows Latin it's entirely possible Shane really did hear what he thought he heard back at the church and if he heard it, Ryan heard it too. Sure, Ryan definitely doesn't know Latin, but there's nothing stopping him from learning. There's nothing stopping him from coming back to this very church without Shane and finding out what the priest apparently knows for himself.

\-------------

It takes around three minutes into the drive for Ryan to start speaking, the same kind of excitement his voice that he has when he finds a promising location. "That was so cool," he starts, startling Shane from wherever his thoughts had led him, "don't you think? I mean the way your eyes rolled back when he touched you? Fucking crazy man!"

Shane rolled his eyes, "yeah, me not knowing where to look when an angry man screams at my face about me being infested with demons, crazy!" His tones sarcastic, but harmless.

"If the fans didn't think you were a demon before they sure as hell will now." Ryan grins, pleased with himself because, in his eyes, the day had been a success.

"Do you?" Shane responds, trying to keep his voice level, indifferent, trying to make sure he still sounds like Shane.

"I've considered it." Ryan shrugs, looking a little embarrassed at the admittance, as though Shane hadn't already figured that much out back at the church.

Shane snorted, "you mean you've read the fanfiction?"

"What? No!" His eyes widen as they flash at Shane.

"I mean I wouldn't blame you, if that's what you're into and all."

"Shut up, Shane." Ryan huffs, taking one hand away from the wheel to give Shane a shove as the taller man just laughs, his eyes crinkling in the way Ryan loves.

"Jeez, why are you always so cold?" Ryan complained as his hand went back to the wheel.

"Who are you, Bella Swan?" Shane snorted, "besides, you shoved me through my jacket, my skin is a perfectly natural temperature, thank you very much."

"Yeah but you'd think with how much you were sweating five minutes ago you'd be radiating a little heat- what the hell did you just make a twilight reference?"

"Yeah, I did, and I'm proud of it, baby!"

"How many times have I told you not to call me that?" He groans.

"Sorry, forgot I was talking to Ryan 'no homo' Bergara for a minute."

"I'm not some damn no homo douche, Shane."

"Sure you are, we all love you for it!"

"Asshole." Then, a few minutes later, "Do you think there's any vampire Shane fanfiction out there?"

Shane's eyes widen for a second, "I doubt it, but if I get sent any after tonight don't think I won't know it's you who wrote it." He teased, Ryan shook his head softly with a light laugh, a laugh that didn't quite meet his eyes.


	3. Lamia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lamia:  
(Latin;)  
\- vampire

Shane frowns, tugging off his headphones as his phone screen lights up on his desk. He works with all his friends, surely whoever wants his attention could just walk over to his desk if they needed him.

His confusion is amplified tenfold when he sees the name of the message's sender, _Ryan_. Then same Ryan sat at his desk less than a metre away. He shoots him a look, but Ryan's eyes are on his monitor, intently so and it's clear he's avoiding Shane's gaze. Failing to make eye contact with the shorter man Shane has no choice other than to actually read the message.

_Ryan: There is some. I found it._

Shane's frown deepens.

_Shane: Huh? _

_Ryan: Fanfiction. _

Shane feigns a laugh.

_ Shane: Well we already knew that Ryan. _

_Shane: And you know I'm sat right here right? _

_Ryan: vampire fanfiction, about you _

_Shane: Jesus, you're not going to start testing me now are you, slipping garlic into my food? _

Shane laughs this time because he doesn't have to look up from his phone to know Ryan is rolling his eyes.

_Ryan: vampires aren't real, I'm not stupid Shane, but it'd make sense, you look pale as hell today man_

He almost winces as that, because _fuck_ he _is_ pale and it hasn't even been a week since he last drank. He swore he'd get something last night but there were some complications and well, one more day without blood couldn't hurt, could it?

_Shane: I'm not calling you stupid, I'm just saying, didn't you test me for being a demon just yesterday? _

_Ryan: that's different_

_ Shane: right, it's possible I'd eat your soul but blood-drinking is your limit? _

"Asshole," Ryan mumbles from beside him and Shane laughs again, a full-bodied laugh that makes his face scrunch up and his hands slap down on the desk because it's just so easy, sometimes he thinks Ryan wants him to belittle everything he says.

It's a couple of hours later when Ryan tugs off Shane's headphones, who makes a disgruntled noise in response, despite the fact he wasn't really using them for anything. His frustration is quickly replaced when he hears the magic words.

"Hey big guy, you hungry?"

"Starving," he replies, all his attention now on Ryan because he really is, he's just not sure whatever sustenance Ryan will suggest can really hit the mark. It's not like the guys about to offer up his wrist- that's a thought Shane curses himself for as soon as he thinks it because he can almost taste it.

"Well our lunch break starts in like five minutes so finish up with-" he pauses to look over at Shane's monitor, "whatever the hell it is you're working on."

"Chipotle?" Shane asks, one eyebrow quirking up in question despite the fact Ryan never says no to Chipotle-

"Actually-"

"Whoa, is the Bergmeister really about to turn down Chipotle? Holy shit! Someone get the cameras!" Shane spins on a chair, eyes searching the offices as his voice raises, because embarrassing Ryan is so _so_ easy.

"_Shut up_, Shane." He mutters, subconsciously sinking down into his chair as the taller man battles with himself not to comment on how damn adorable that is.

"Pfft," Shane swipes his hand through the air dismissively, not caring that pretty much everyone in the open, shared office had turned to look at them, "what are we saying then Ry, Taco Bell?"

"No, as I was trying to say, there's this cute new Italian place down the road and I thought we could give it a try." He mutters, slightly irritated and even more annoyingly for him, slightly amused by Shane's antics.

Shane quirks his eyebrows, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it because _Italian?_ Was he really going to be that obvious?

"If you don't want to I'm down for a burrito, I just wanted to try something different." It would've been innocent enough if Shane hadn't heard the distinct picking up of his heart rate, beating the way it does whenever he's nervous, borderline scared and Shane realises he can't really say no without raising suspicion. Besides, it's hardly an issue, Shane loves Italian food, though none of it really compares to the meals he'd indulged in during his time in Italy in '76.

"No, Italians good, I could go for some pasta."

The grin that beams across Ryan's face is almost worth it, he thinks idly as he stands.

\----------------

"Could've warned me there was a dress code little guy," Shane murmurs as they wait to be seated. His eyes cast over the room that was distinctly white, with sandalwood beams supporting the place and tall green plants in red clay pots situated at different points in the room. The tables were the same white as the walls, with the kind of metal chairs Shane would usually associate with a garden dining set a middle-aged woman would own but hey, it didn't look bad, just not exactly Shane's taste.

Ryan snorts, "what, so you could iron your jean jacket?"

Shane's about to make a retort about how that's rich coming from a guy who owns eleven basketball jerseys but before they get the chance a young-looking waitress comes over and leads them to the table.

As they are seated, the waitress asks the two men whether they'd like their complimentary bread basket to be filled with sourdough or their_ "chef's special"_ garlic bread and before Shane has the chance Ryan responds.

"Garlic, please," then he pauses to glance at Shane, "if that's fine with you?"

Shane nods, with a tight-lipped smile, "sounds great!"

The waitress then asks whether they want sparkling or plain water and when Ryan asks for sparkling Shane makes a show of detesting it, "you drink sparkling water and you call me the demon?" He jokes once the young woman leaves, hoping that the voice in Ryan's head currently screaming_ 'vampire vampire vampire' _is somewhat quelled by the thought that Shane is more repulsed by water with bubbles in it than he is by garlic.

The waitress comes back with the water, then the bread, then takes their orders. Ryan shoots Shane a glance he's pretty sure is meant to be subtle when he orders one of the pasta dishes that doesn't have garlic in the listed ingredients, even more so when Shane declares it to be his favourite pasta meal.

To battle Ryan's blatant suspicion he sticks his hand into the bread basket and takes a bite out of the biggest piece of garlic bread he can find, making a show of pulling the bread apart and stuffing into his mouth. The look on Ryan's face then is definitely worth it and what did he really expect? Shane to burst into flames?

He jokes about that very thing as they walk back into their offices a little over an hour later - both of them seemingly unbothered by the fact they definitely went over their designated lunch periods as they drop back down into their office chairs. Shane figures that the way Ryan has been pouting about not having caught him out on something is worth all the bother as well.

It's worth it up until the very moment it isn't, it's worth it until Shane turns a few shades paler, an almost grey tinge covering his skin as he staggers to the office toilets, barely making it into a cubicle before he's on his knees. He tries his hardest not to imagine how many of his coworkers have pissed on the floor he kneels on over the toilet as he heaves.

It's dry at first, nothing coming out as his eyes water and his nose starts to run and he struggles to remember if he shut the cubicle door behind him. He doesn't have time to check through as a second wave of nausea rolls through him and he's heaving again. This time the insides of the toilet get plastered with blood, it's clumpy and thick, as though it had begun to coagulate on the way up to his throat and it keeps coming. There's a dull burning in his gums he recognises as his fangs piercing through the taunt pink skin at the sensation of blood on his tongue and there's something about the pain that leads to him gagging more. His hands clutch dangerously tight around the sides of the bowl and all he can think is that he really needs a fucking shower.

He groans, falling back on his knees and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing at the amount of blood he's lost. There's a heavy buzzing in his skull and he knows he'll have to drink soon, and he thought he was hungry before.

He takes another glance into the bowl as if to confirm he had just vomited his body weight in blood and of course he had. He knew this would happen, he shouldn't have eaten it but turning it away would've been the only confirmation Ryan needed and he wasn't going down that path. He'd gone down that path so many times, it had never ended well. He couldn't lose Ryan, not over something as stupid as a slice of garlic bread.

He doesn't know how he misses the creaking of the hinges as the bathroom door opens, but suddenly there's a knock on his stall, a familiar sound in a pattern that's just so Ryan.

"Hey big guy, you okay?"

He swallows hard, which he instantly regrets because blood doesn't taste half as good the second time.

"Yeah, Ry I'm-" and then there it is, that dizzying nausea as his hands are back on the bowl, his body lurching forward and more of that thick, clumpy blood tugs its way out of his throat. He doesn't remember dying, but he thinks for a moment that this must be what it felt like, no air reaching his lungs, his entire body trembling and sweating, hot and cold. His nose and throat burning, his sight spinning in and out, blurring in a terrifyingly disorientating way and his brain throbs violently with the intention of cracking his skull in two. He retracts that thought though when he realises he's felt pain so much worse than this. Relatively, this bout of sickness doesn't really hold a flame to what he's been through.

Once his body has done tremoring and there's no longer any substance to climb out of his throat he takes a shaky breath and gives the most croaked out response he thinks he's ever given, "I'm-" he coughs, and there's blood rolling off his lips, "I'm fine Ry, can you-" another cough, a splutter more like, "just give me a sec yeah? I-" he takes another breath and the _'don't want you to see me like this'_ goes unspoken, but he's sure Ryan hears it.

"Yeah okay, I'll- I'll give you some space." And sure enough, he hears Ryan back away from the stall, he makes sure to listen to the squeak of the hinges before he stands. Dizziness overtakes him then and he slams his palms against the sides of the stall to steady himself, he mumbles a string of curses to himself, something along the lines of, "kurwa, cholera, kurwa" _fuck, shit, fuck_ something that feels foreign on his tongue and surprises himself, he writes it off as him thinking too much into his past over the last few days.

When he's sure he wasn't loud enough to catch Ryan's attention he stands fully, flushing the toilet, again, again, and again before all traces of blood are washed away. It's then he steps out of the stall and stares at what could quite possibly be a murder victim in the mirror in front of him because kurwa_, fuck_, he certainly doesn't look like a living human.

The blood smeared across his face and the back of his hand he was prepared for, and he could feel the thick, slimy sweat that was sticky on his body as soon as he'd stopped heaving so the way his hair was clinging to his forehead wasn't all that surprising. His skin though? Grey and sunken, the bags under his eyes almost black? The borderline purple tint to his lips? He wasn't prepared for that. It's then the realisation hits him, he really is _starving_, he needs to drink, and soon.

He inwardly cringes when he notices the bloodstain down the front of his shirt, silently thankful for the fact he's wearing two layers, even if Ryan always curses him for it. He unbuttons the shirt with shaky hands, dampening it and using it as a cloth to wipe the blood from his hands and face, as well as where it had started to roll down his neck. He then splashes his face with cold water, hoping it'll somehow help with his complexion, it doesn't surprise surprise. He tussles his hair, straightening his BuzzFeed™ T-shirt as if it'll make some kind of difference and balls up his other shirt in his hand, ensuring the blood-stained parts aren't on show.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and praying he looks alive enough to play off the fact that he's just _really sick_ before he walks back into the main office.

He tries his best to pretend he didn't stumble and nearly fall twice as he drops back into his chair and leads forward, catching his head in his hands and trying to steady his breath before Ryan starts to speak. He doesn't quite catch what the other man said, the world suddenly sounding like he's underwater as he struggles to ignore the smell of life, of blood in this room, tries to ignore all the healthy heartbeats of his coworkers, egging him on to tear out someone's throat.

He lets out what could be considered a soft whimper as his hearing comes back in a wave, suddenly sharply ache in a way that hurts, the pounding of hearts getting ever louder.

"-riously dude, what's going on?" He catches the tail end of Ryan's rather concerned line of questioning when he feels a hand on his shoulder and instinctively flinches away from it because it feels so warm and alive and he can practically feel the blood pulsing through it.

"Jus'- just a little sick," Shane manages to stammer as he lifts his head from his hands but he winces again, his eyes slamming shut because suddenly all the lights are far too bright.

He's acutely aware of the sweat rolling down his back as Ryan speaks again and he realises his shirt isn't in his hands.

"A little sick? Shane, you- fuck you need to home."

Shane opens his eyes for long enough to locate his shirt, which he'd apparently thrown to the floor near his bag under his desk as he walked in, he kicks it a little further under his desk before he murmurs something almost unintelligible, "Nah, 's fine, I'm fine, I jus-" then he feels it again, crashing over him in a moment of disorientation and he's heaving, the back of his hand quickly coming up to cover his mouth because spitting blood across his keyboard wouldn't be a good look.

"Holy fuck, I think you need to go to the hospital man."

Shane shakes his head, a little frantically, which doesn't help his situation but Ryan calling an ambulance is the worst thing that could happen right now.

He gives it a few seconds before he can breathe again and he moves his hand swallowing whatever had made its way onto his tongue, "no, you're right, I jus' need to go home." He slurs slightly, only half aware his eyes are watering again.

"Well you're not driving, I'll call you an uber."

Shane wants to make a joke about that being the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for him but he can't manage and instead hunches over on himself. He doesn't know how long it is before there are hands on his shoulders again.

"Come on man, cars here." He hears a soft voice nearby as he pulls himself up, allowing all his weight to fall on Ryan as his arm is wrapped around the smaller man's shoulders and an arm is wrapped under his. He groans as he staggers to his feet, letting Ryan practically drag him out of the building.

Soon he's being buckled into the back seat as Ryan relays his address to the driver. When Ryan's gone and the car starts moving Shane puts all his focus on not blacking out before he gets back to his apartment. Maybe some of his focus should go onto not ripping the driver's throat out too, _yeah, that sounds like a plan._

\----------------

When Ryan gets back to his desk he realises Shane's bag is still sat under his desk along with- _his shirt?_ He frowns, reaching down to pick it up he notices something, is that, _blood?_ He pulls back and he doesn't want to believe it, he doesn't because while he'd joked earlier, the reality of it seemed a little dim and the restaurant was meant to do nothing other than to prove that Shane, his Shane, Shane Madej, his best friend and fellow ghoul hunter was human.

When he came out of that bathroom though, when he was sat clutching his head in that chair? He hadn't even looked alive.

It's absurd, he knows it is but he thinks back to Shane's exorcism, the priest had mumbled something, _Latin maybe?_ Something he doesn't have a clue how to spell but he remembers the pronunciation of perfectly.

It's absurd, _so stupid_, but he slides his headphones back on and loads up google translate on his monitor - the same website his Spanish tutor had drilled into his head so many times as quite possibly _the worst_ translation site out there - and searched for the Latin translation of vampire.

It was so damn stupid, but he clicked the little speaker button and that irritatingly monotone voice called out a word he'd heard slip from that priests mouth _lamia,_ and Ryan's pretty sure he feels his heart stop because no, this is stupid_, absurd,_ so _so_ stupid, so then why, did his mind tell him that without any doubt, this was the proof he was looking for. That he knows now what Shane is, _lamia, vampire._


	4. Sanguisuga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanguisuga:  
(Latin;)  
\- leech

He wasn't sure what else to do, but as he rounded the steps of the church this idea sure didn't feel like a good one. It feels like he's stabbing Shane in the back somehow and while he tells himself he shouldn't feel guilty because hell, _if Shane hadn't been keeping some secrets,_ but he still can't help the tugging in his chest and the weight in the pit of his stomach creating a feeling that's nothing short of painful. '_turn the fuck back, now',_ he hears something ring from inside his skull and he almost gives in to his fear but, wasn't Shane the one always telling him to man up? Plus, what's the worst can happen, it's a church, when was the last time anything bad had happened in a quaint little chapel like this one? Okay, he's definitely not going to linger on that thought.

The creaking of the main doors is painfully loud and he takes a moment to question whether churches were meant to be this quiet on a Saturday morning but he tries not to dwell on that as he walks past the sole other person, an old lady praying silently in one of the pews and he tells himself to turn back, because this is clearly a bad time. But then the priest is in front of him, studying the look on his face with a look on his own that suggests he sees all of Ryan's deep dark thoughts and certainly doesn't approve.

Ryan swallows, looking down at his feet, then up again, "Father-"

"Is this about your friend?" So calm, monotone, with a harsh ring to it Ryan almost misses.

And Ryan's eyes widen because until now he was entirely capable of telling himself this was all just in his goddamn head, one of the many cons of having an overactive imagination.

He clears his throat, "Yeah, about Shane."

The priest eyes him for a little longer, before making a gruff noise, of confirmation maybe?

"You shouldn't give them names."

Ryan frowns at that, his brows furrowing into a clear state of confusion, "Wha-"

"Demons, it centres them in our world." The way he says it is so matter-of-factly Ryan almost doesn't want to question him, worried he'll offend the man somehow. But _that_\- that's just- _no_.

"He's not, um, Shane's not-"

"No, maybe not, but creatures born from death, that feed on the life of others? They are all children of the devil." And that voice telling him to turn back gets louder because that doesn't sound right at all. 

"No, I mean, no disrespect but Shane isn't evil, he's-"

"Is that not what a demon would want you to think?"

And _who does this guy think he is?_ Even if he does kind of make a fair point. Kind of. Maybe- Wait, no. Not at all. It's stupid, this whole thing is just _stupid_.

"Look, Ryan, I want to help you, but you have to let me. You've been a slave to the devil's trickery for too long." The plain look on his face doesn't really sell his words, then again, he had that face on for pretty much their entire meeting last time, only changing it up every so often for the camera. There's no camera now, no crew, no Shane, just Ryan.

"Help me?" He asks, not quite understanding, despite help being the only reason he came.

"To get rid of him."

"To get- get rid of him!?" He almost chokes because hold on _what?_ That wasn't- that was never his intention, he couldn't do that to Shane, could he?

The priest sighs, as though speaking to Ryan is the most damning feat he's ever endured. "What else would you come to me for?"

"I just, I wanted to know what he is." It's not entirely a lie. He did want to know, still does, he's just not sure he's in the right place to find out any more.

"You're already aware of that if you're here."

"Lamia," Ryan mutters, looking for confirmation and the priest nods. He's pretty sure he could already hear his heartbeat in his ears but now it's intensified, neurotic, Shane would call him, irrational, overdramatic, illogical.

"sanguisuga, the bloodsucker." He agrees and Ryan really doesn't like that tone, it makes him feel a little queasy.

"Yeah, but what, what does that really mean? He's still capable of being good right?" He asks, though he's pretty sure he's asking himself at this point, trying to confirm- no convince himself that he knows Shane, he's a good guy, that hasn't changed.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined the taller man ripping out someone's throat in the few times he's closed his eyes for a little too long while thinking at work after Shane had left. He'd seen it again in his dreams last night. Tearing apart his coworkers like they were cattle, _if you want to see something, you'll see it_, Shane would say, _human minds are funny like that,_ but that's not right, he doesn't want to imagine Shane like that.

The man scoffs, and Ryan wonders how much trouble he could get into for punching a priest in a church.

"Good? Is that what you think he is?"

"Yeah, I mean I don't know, he's Shane, he's-"

"A liar, a manipulator, a leech."

"No-"

"Maybe you're too far gone to see it."

"No!"

"Then answer me this, do good things flinch under the sight of the cross?"

"He- he can't be bad he's Shane, _my Shane_." He doesn't know why he sounds so possessive when he says it, his voice foreign to even him.

The priests face seems to twist into something foul at that, "_yours_? You mean to say you're in a relationship with this monster?"

"No, well I- I think I want to- No, I'm not." It's then the priest takes hold of Ryan's shoulders and those pleading voices in the back of his head reach their crescendo, _'we got what we wanted, let's go'_

"of all the sins, you want to lay beside that- that creature which parades itself as a- a _man_?" The tone in the priest's voice as he refers to Shane as a man is the final straw because Jesus Christ, _really?_ He pushes the mans hands off his shoulders and starts to walk out when he hears a call, and he wants to keep walking but there's something in him that forces him to turn and the priest is there, holding out his hand, brandishing the same cross he'd uses during Shane's exorcism, "take it." Is all he says, and Ryan does. His head screams _'don't,'_ but he's Ryan damn Bergara and no way in hell was he going to confront a demo- vampi- _Shane_ unarmed.

\----------------

He winces when he rolls over and a golden stream of light hits his face. Then he slumps out of bed blind, stumbling over to tug shut his blackout blinds which he'd apparently not sensed an issue with leaving open when he got back to his apartment yesterday as he'd proceeded to hack up more blood on his bathroom floor. He'd dropped into bed soon after and waking up with no from-the-vein human blood on his shirt gave him all the confirmation he needed that he didn't start a massacre on the way home, which is always nice.

He figures it was probably overcast when he got home, so he didn't bother covering the windows but he now makes sure to take note of that fact that when you wake up starving, sun sure as hell burns.

Now he was left with another issue, the hunger, and well, if he went out onto the street now he's not entirely sure he wouldn't lose control and kill someone, which left one other option as he slides back down into the bed. It was a bad option, one he really didn't want to choose and he hated doing it but he's not sure he has another choice. He'd contact his _Childe_. He knows he'll regret it, but if the only other vampire he's friendly within LA happens to be sired to him who else is he going to contact? And he'll be the first to admit, using the bond to his advantage isn't something he was proud of but it's not like he bonded his soul to the guy on purpose. It's not even something he knew he could do, it usually takes hundreds of years for that kind of power to come into play and okay yes, he had _technically_ been quite close to the two-hundred-year mark at the time but it's not like he had a special connection to the man he turned. It was just, an accident. Yeah, that sounds good. An accident.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand and his thumb hover over the contact Emery, formally known as Mr Vincent Emery Calvert when they'd met during his time in England, he thinks Vincent always sounded a little too formal anyway. Though it was fitting, since the guy was on the arrogant end of the upper class.

Shane had arrived in London in the early 1900s and he'd found Emery passed out drunk outside a brothel in the slums of Soho a few weeks in to what ended up being one of his larges stays in one area, remaining in London for just over 30 years, even spending a couple of years at war, it reminded him too much of Russia though, so that didn't last long.

He's never understood war, no matter how many he's witnessed or took part in, he's never understood how some seem to be blind to, or alternately revel in the futility of it all.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Shane Madej," He inwardly groans, "that's what you're calling yourself now right? Shane?"

"Yeah, Em." He already knows this will be a difficult call.

"How American."

"It's Irish _actually_." He doesn't try to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he wonders why he ever saved this guy.

"You know what Emery is?"

"One annoying bastard?" He's silently jealous that he'd managed to keep his British accent so well, he wants to relearn polish, not that he'd have much use for it.

"British, it's traditional, because I respect my country, Madej." He groans again, and he's not so sure this is worth the trouble, he silently wishes sire bonds worked like they did in teen fiction, that the childe was always desperate to please their sire because that would certainly make this guy easier to handle.

"Emery I didn't call you to listen to you be an ass for five minutes."

"We haven't even been on the call that long."

"_Shut up._" Shane growls and he doesn't realise he tone he's used until the silence on the other end of the line if deafening, "sorry, sorry Em, _you can speak_ I didn't- I just."

"Is this where you try and play it off like you didn't call to manipulate our unbreakable bond against me?"

"No I- Jesus," he rubs his face with a flat palm, "I just wanted to ask a favour."

"Well it's not like I have a choice, so shoot _Master_."

"Don't call me that, please, I just, I need blood Emery, _badly_." He really does hate being known as some kind of bond master because the whole thing sounds so vulgar, so wrong and it was never supposed to happen, a one in a million chance, an anomaly at some point during the turning process, a mistake. An accident.

"You know there are plenty of humans in LA right Shane?"

"Yes, yes, but I don't," he exhales a sharp breath, mussing his hair and blinking to try stop his vision blurring out of focus as he stares at the ceiling, "I don't trust myself right now."

And the other must hear the desperation in his voice because his next response comes out somewhat sincere, it's caring for Emery anyway, Shane knows that, "Okay okay, what do you want me to do?"

"Just a couple of bags Em, that'll do, I don't care what type or anything like that."

"Am I going crazy or are you asking me to steal from a hospital for you?"

"Or a donation centre." He knows his suggestion doesn't help, and he knows how wrong it is, but it's the only choice.

"Oh yeah, because that's better?"

Shane rolls his eyes, _like you haven't done worse. _"I know what I'm asking but I just- I'll give you something in return."

"Like what?" His interest is piqued now and Shane has to fight off rolling his eyes again.

"I don't know! I'm desperate okay? I could sire- manipulate you or whatever right now and I'm not, doesn't tell you something?" It's true, it wouldn't be the first time.

"I'll need a couple of days."

"I don't have a couple of days."

"Shit, tomorrow, I'll be there tomorrow."

"Emery?"

"Yeah?"

There's a pause.

"Thank you."

He hears a soft laugh from the other end and it's weirdly comforting. "Don't thank me yet, and maybe try and avoid, I don't know, everyone until I get there?"

Shane almost manages a chuckle back at that, "I'm sure I'll manage."

With that, the calls over and the phone drops down onto the pillow beside him. He doesn't have the energy to feel relief, but he knows it's there somewhere. He tries to cling to the fact that there's someone coming for him and that tomorrow there will be blood pumping through his veins again. It's a little hard though when his entire body feels like it's about to crumble apart and he's no longer sure he could stand if he tried. Which sucks, because he could really do with a glass of water or something right now to at least attempt to quell the burning in his throat.

He wants to pick up his phone again, call Ryan, thank him for getting him an Uber yesterday, for making him go home, for looking so concerned and for generally just being Ryan. But he also wants to kill the guy for the exorcism and the damn garlic bread and for generally just being Ryan. It's a hard line to walk down and he quickly decides he can't be mad because he expected it all, and because the guy really wouldn't be Ryan if he wasn't trying to constantly prove something absurd, even if in this case, and in most cases even, he's right.

He thinks he must be cursed because moments after he starts thinking about Ryan there's that familiar knock on the door, followed by another knock, and then another and Shane prays he'll just go away, but he knocks again.

He thinks he'll leave it, Ryan will give up after a couple hours and he can live through that, but them the yelling starts, "Shane! I know you're in there!" And he knows what this is about because he knows that tone and then he picks up on his heart rate and oh fuck, _he knows._


	5. Proszę

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proszę:  
(Polish;)  
\- please

He hunches over the counter and he can't quite remember how many walls he stumbled into to get here but that doesn't matter, what matters is a glass of water. All that matters right now is somewhat soothing his ever-aching throat.

_Knock knock knock_ and Jesus, this guy really doesn't give up, does he?

He sighs, chugging one glass of water, then another because who cares how long it takes him to answer the door? It's not like Ryan will be leaving any time soon. He's irritatingly stubborn, Shane can always rely on that.

The water helps, a little at least, especially when he splashes some on his face to wake himself up because now his sight is a little clearer and his throat doesn't burn quite as bad. Make no mistake, the burn is still there, just a little less intense, making him less likely to claw into his throat and rip out his oesophagus just so he doesn't have to feel it anymore and that sounds like the only positive he'll get right now, so he takes it.

When he gets to the door, key in hand he wants nothing more than to turn back and sleep for the rest of the day. Except there is something he wants, way more, and that's kind of the issue because he can smell him. And he smells, _so so good_ and Shane's not sure he has enough control for this, and he apparently doesn't have enough self-control to _not_ open the door because suddenly Ryan's there, hovering in the hallway with his hands behind his back. He's sweating, shaking and his heart is almost outside his chest with how fast it's beating and Shane's pretty sure that if he had any blood left in him he'd be throwing up on his shoes.H e's not completely sure he won't as he slams his eyes shut and takes a deep breath because_ kurwa, fuck, no not again_.

He eyes Ryan, who eyes the floor, and he clears his throat because what now? And when did his throat start hurting this badly again?

"Bella." He tries, jokes, then he cringes because of all the badly timed jokes he's made, of all the jokes that have fallen flat over the years that one certainly stings the most. _And come on Shane, a Twilight reference? You're better than that._

To his surprise though, it's that joke that finally gets Ryan to lift his head and now he can see his face, paled and sweaty and Shane kind of wants him to look down again because he did that to him, that's his fault. Because he's a monster.

"Edward," Ryan mutters and Shane gives him the respect of not commenting on how his voice cracks because he can't blame him. He just wishes the guy would calm down a little because he can't hear much over his heartbeat right now and that's painfully distracting.

"Are you going to invite me inside?" Ryan asks, wearily.

Shane fights off a joke about that being his line and instead, "I wasn't sure you'd want to come in."

"Well I knocked, didn't I, what else would I want?" And for a moment his frustration overtakes his fear and Shane's a little too happy about that because at least the guy struggles at being angry and scared at the same time. That makes him a little easier to deal with.

Shane eyes him for a minute focusing on the way his arms shift, suggesting he's fidgeting with something behind his back. He tilts his head to the side, "what's that?"

His heartbeat increases a little at that and Shane's kind of worried the guys going to have a heart attack. Then his arms shift once more and he's bringing the mystery object forward.

Shane flinches, backs away, _hisses_ when he sees it and wait, _hisses? _Damn, that's new.

It's the cross that batshit crazy priest had wielded and of course it is. "What the fuck Ryan?" He snaps before he can stop himself because he's just not strong enough to control his emotions right now and seriously, _what the fuck?_ Did he actually just hiss?

"Lamia."

And Shane lets out a cold laugh almost on instinct, "at least speak in a language you understand," he can't even look back at Ryan because that fucking cross is still out in front of him, he can sense it.

"You-you're a vampire." And suddenly his head is spinning.

\--------------------- 3 months ago ---------------------

"Wh-what are you?" He stammered, falling back on the dirty concrete floor of the quote-unquote 'haunted', building they'd found themselves in.

"Ry, Ryan, please, relax." His voice was desperate, strained, as calm as his vocal cords will allow in the tense situation - which probably isn't calm enough.

"No- you're- you're not Shane, you can't be!" The fear, the confusion, the scrambling backwards all made Shane's heart shatter.

_Not Shane?_ He thinks, _what am I then?_

"Oh come on Ry, you make it sound like we are at the start of some x-rated fanfiction." He teases, but it doesn't come out in his usual carefree way, not at all. It's painful to hear, even on his own ears.

His eyes are wide, body sweating and trembling violently on the floor, he'd cut himself on the glass of a broken window less than five minutes ago and now Shane was stood above him and it's just Shane, just Shane- but it couldn't be, because he could've sworn he saw his skin pale and his eyes turn red, he could've sworn his mouth didn't look quite right, his teeth- his fangs, well they certainly hadn't been there before. Then he had looked away, and he was Shane again. But that wasn't Shane, not to Ryan. That wasn't his Shane, it couldn't be because his Shane was just a slightly too cynical man who made jokes a little too dark sometimes, not some fucking demon.

Shane could almost read the thoughts running through his head, his mind whirring into overdrive. The possibilities running throug_h his brain, monster, demon, monster...alien? No...fangs, fangs, fangs, vampire._ And then... "You-you're a vampire."

"Ry, look, I can explain." But it was too late because there was that look in his eyes, the look of terror, the kind of horror the human brain can never recover from. The look that must've been on the face of a thirteen-year-old polish boy nearly three hundred years ago and it broke him, it killed him. That look meant one thing, he'd lose Ryan. His Ryan. The same Ryan that had now backed himself into a wall, his trembling hands aiming his holy water gun at Shane, and _come on, really Ryan? You know that's demons._

And Shane stepped forward, hands raised in surrender because the cut on Ryan's arm was bleeding a lot and that wasn't good, because it only looked like a scratch but no. This was bad. Shane needed to get close enough to help.

It was then Shane realised he was crying, his body shuddering in a way that mimicked Ryan's and all he could slur out was, "proszę, proszę, proszę," _please, please, please,_ "proszę Ryan, please."

His heart was staggering and stalling in his chest in a way that was all too human and the way his sobs caught in his throat made him dizzy with oxygen loss because _please no, not again._

\--------------------- Present-day ---------------------

"You're a fucking vampire!" His voice is dangerously high, more anger than fear now, at least that's what he wants Shane to think, but the vampire can see the goosebumps crawling up his arms when he risks a look and_ please, no, don't be scared, anything is better than scared._

"T-the cross Ryan, please." He begged because he couldn't will himself to look for more than a second and burning nausea in his nose and throat had met his climax and he just can't, he can't fucking think straight.

He hears the clash of metal hitting the floor and as he looks up its Ryan's turn to look away and he's slightly thankful because at least he can't see the fear in those big brown eyes of his.

"Ho-how, why, wh-what, Sha-Shane?" Ryan rambles incoherently and what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

Shane inhales sharply, which causes another throb to ignite in his skull, wincing in pain as it rolls all the way down to his jaw, striking the nerves in the spot on the back of his neck where his hair stops and he clutches the door frame for support, "are you- do you still want to come in?"

Ryan doesn't look up, simply taking that as an invitation and walking past Shane into the apartment, making his way to the living room without looking back. _Strange_, turning his back on Shane, while knowing what he was.

Maybe_, just maybe_ he wasn't too scared. Shane scoffed at himself for that thought because the fear is literally radiating off of him. He's not sure he can cope with going through this again.

\--------------------- 7 months ago ---------------------

It was reckless, stupidly so and he knew that but he was starving, it had been nearly ten days since he'd last fed and he was really cutting it close.

They'd all gone out drinking after work, and when he'd slipped out of the bar with a young girl hooked around his arm they were all too drunk to notice, Ryan was dancing with Steven at the other end of the bar, there was no way he'd seen Shane slipping out, no way. He'd made sure of it, he was always careful in his recklessness. He was a juxtaposition of himself like that. Shane Madej, both ends of the spectrum, he might make that his slogan. But he won't, because he's drunk and probably won't remember that - except he does - and what kind of asshole gives themself a damn slogan?

Anyway, he was pretty confident when he'd slipped into the alleyway with the girl, who let out drunk giggles that were a little grating but whatever, a meal is a meal, in a couple of minutes this girl would be ordering another drink at the bar and he'd be finding an excuse to replace Steven with himself on the dancefloor next to Ryan.

He thought idly about how much of a cliche he was becoming as his teeth sank into the base of her neck, but all his cynical thoughts were washed away by the taste of what he was craving, replaced by a feeling of bliss, life flooding into him. Ironically, with his teeth sunk into a person's skin is the sole moment he feels the most human, because it's at that point the fresh blood in his veins is it's warmest and as their heart steadily pumps the fluid onto his tongue he can almost feel alive again. It was at that moment he also felt an urge that was completely animalistic, not at all human, because he was Shane Madej, _walking juxtaposition, baby!_ \- What breed off asshole did that make Shane? He didn't get to consider.

"S-Shane?"

Then everything had swept away, the bliss of humanity, the primal urge, because he'd recognised that voice, that fear. _No, no, please. Not now Ryan, no, anything but that fear._

\--------------------- Present-day ---------------------

Ryan's stood, a little too close to the door for Shane's liking, and Shane is sat, he could barely walk himself into the living room so he was endlessly thankful when Ryan hadn't chosen to occupy his couch.

So there he was, head clutched in trembling hands. It's then, Ryan notices that the sickness Shane had experienced at work can't have gone away, because he's still just as pale, if not more so, and the way his body is trembling challenges his own.

"What's- are you- are you still sick?" Ryan asked, not really knowing how to phrase it because how the hell can vampires even get sick?

Shane raised his head, grimacing as he allowed his eyes to meet the others. That's when Ryan noticed the bags under his eyes, dark, almost black as his skin was pulled taut, he looked like he hadn't slept in days, but that wasn't possible, he didn't look nearly this bad yesterday morning.

"No- well, yeah," Shane mumbled awkwardly, running his hand through overgrown hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in a few days, "I erm, I-" and suddenly it seemed impossible to string a sentence together and he was pretty sure his brain was melting because blood, Ryan's blood was so close yet so far.

Shane looked away, his head hurting far too much to keep it held up like that - letting it hang limply between his knees instead as he hunched over - just in time to miss the frown taking over Ryan's features, the way his fear and anger was smouldered out by the thought that his best friend was sat on his couch looking like he was about to drop dead - _or drop deader_, he figures, a little crudely.

"What does that mean?" Ryan pushed, taking a step closer, was it something he could help with? Was it something- _something lethal?_ Was this because of him? _Because of a slice of fucking garlic bread? _

"I- fuck- erm, I need, I need to eat, to- to feed, the g-garlic and the fucking priest and the- the-" he stopped himself because _shut the fuck up Shane, it doesn't matter, he hates you now, hates you for what you are, he always does._

"To- to feed? Like blood? Human blood? Is that what you eat? How do you get it? Blood bags or do you-" The soft groan of pain drags Ryan from his ramblings and suddenly he was on his knees in front of Shane's hunched over form, trying to watch as the taller man buried his face into his hands, elbows digging into his knees and Ryan didn't know what to do.

"Shane, shit- Shane are you- what's happening?" And that tone of panicked concern made Shane want to do nothing other than break down sobbing but he wasn't sure he was even capable of that. He couldn't keep his eyes open, he couldn't think and Ryan's voice didn't sound in focus as he continued to ramble concerns.

_This_, he thinks, _dying like this, with Ryan caring wouldn't be so bad, it's better than the fear, anythings better than the fear._

Then suddenly he can't keep himself upright, his body falling, he's not sure in what direction, he's not even sure if he's hit something or if he'll continue to fall forever as reality slips away from him. He thinks he might hear Ryan yell his name before his mind melts away completely, but probably not. He hates him. Hates him for what he is. He always does.

\--------------------- One year ago ---------------------

It hadn't felt right when he'd walked into work, finding him sat there swinging idly in his chair as the desk beside his own. The grin that Ryan had shot him as he'd noticed the taller man walking in didn't feel entirely real, but it was and maybe that was worse. He didn't deserve that smile. Not then, and not for a day since, because that smile reminded Shane how pitifully unaware Ryan was, how painfully aware he was the day before.

It had been a stupid idea, maybe he was being selfish but he had just wanted him to know so badly. He was so sick of lying to his best friend, to the man he had tried to convince himself wasn't the god damn love of his life.

He'd thought maybe, with all his open-mindedness around the possibility of the supernatural that maybe Ryan would've understood, accepted, maybe even been excited about it because he'd finally get his proof. He was so, so wrong.

He'd invited Ryan over to his apartment over the weekend for their usual ceremony of shitty horror movies and popcorn. It had seemed like the perfect time for the confession, warm and private and comfortable and known and what could go wrong? Except everything had gone wrong, and maybe it was the beers they'd had earlier in the night, or how jumpy he had got from the horror movies but Ryan certainly did not react as expected.

Shane doesn't remember the extent of it, or at least he tries not to, but he does, he remembers every word, every look of fear, every _stay away from me_, every, _you're a monster_, every, _leave me alone._

That was the first time he'd compelled Ryan to forget.

That was the day he'd decided he'd never compel him again.

That was the day Shane lied to himself, because Ryan had found out twice since, and he'd forgotten each time.

Now he knew again, and Shane was a little too unconscious to take these particular memories from the smaller man.


	6. Nie igraj z ogiem, bo się poparzysz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeża nie dotykaj, bo ukłuje.  
(Polish proverb;)  
\- don't play with fire or you will get burnt  
ie. don't tempt fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood, I suppose this could be considered self-harm? I don't know? Just like...read with caution?

He'd woken up to the smell of blood, rusty and bitter and oh so sweet and _God, _maybe he is dead because the smell of that blood is giving him one hell of a religious experience right now. _Fuck,_ he didn't remember blood ever smelling that good before, though he figures they'd probably only have the best stuff in heaven, on tap.

He almost laughs at the thought of a vampire bar in the clouds before he comes to the damning realisation that heaven wouldn't open it's gates to creatures like him, and therefore he couldn't be dead, because not even hell would be as cruel as to tease him with something that smelt this so fucking good.

His eyes had shot open, still their regular soft brown, but his pupils were dilated to the point the irises were almost black and for a moment Ryan regrets this idea because Shane looks like a wild animal, head in his lap, hair ruffled and messed up beyond repair - aside from maybe a shower, showers fix pretty much everything, he thinks, but he has more important things than showers to be thinking about right now. Shane's entire body is sweaty and trembling, though that's not exactly new, his skin a little greyer than it was when he passed out, he looks like he's running a cold fever. You know, the kind you get when you're all kinds of sick and you're sweating out cold but your entire body feels like it's on fire- and damn, maybe he _was_ in hell. 

Ryan was relieved though, because for a moment here he wasn't even sure Shane would wake up. He hadn't been sure what to do at all, but he'd remembered Shane drawling about needing to feed and he was in the kitchen with a knife in his hand before he was fully aware of what he was doing. He had stridden into the kitchen, trying to pretend he wasn't crying with the possibility of losing his best friend as he left the knife on the coffee table and worked on pulling Shane up off the floor his body was slumped down onto. He tried no to focus too long on how dead Shane looked, still, barely breathing, blue-lipped and limp bodied. It was nightmare fuel and he was pretty sure the image wouldn't leave his mind for a few days. Whatever, it's not like humans news sleep anyway, right?

He'd managed to struggle Shane onto the couch, making a mental note to scold the man for how unfairly heavy he is for such a skinny guy when he wakes up - because he would wake up, he had to, he fucking had to - as he pulls Shane's head into his lap and leans back over for the knife.

\------------------

It took him a moment too long to locate the source of the blood, the slowly oozing wrist above him because it was already dripping onto his closed mouth and _no no no, this was a bad idea,_ he willed himself to keep his mouth slammed firmly shut, attempting to push himself up but as soon as he'd tried it there was a hand on his chest and - _oh God_ \- he could feel the rapid pulse throbbing through it, and all of a sudden he was painfully aware of the blood rushing through the thighs under his head and the smell above him,_ the fucking smell._

He'd inhaled sharply, a mistake, slammed his eyes shut and shook his head because _no_, he wasn't going to feed on Ryan, no, he couldn't.

Then he heard it, soft and caring with a hint of fear dashed in, "Shane, drink." It took on a strangely demanding tinge at the end and Shane's eyes had shot open, the irises a dazzling crimson this time, almost as deep as the blood.

"Come on Shane, I trust you." His voice wavered slightly, and he'd wished so badly that it hadn't, but Shane still believes him. With that smell above him and his eyes trained on that blood like he's fucking worshipping it he's pretty sure he'd believe every word Ryan said. Right now, Ryan's word was gospel.

_Well, when wasn't it? _

_Shut up._

Then there was that searing in his gums and he whimpered, pretty sure he was crying again because how could he turn down that offer? How could he, with Ryan's hand now on the back of his head, guiding him up to his wrist? How could he when his lips met torn skin and the blood was spilling out against him? He couldn't. He just couldn't control himself, his animalistic urges, he's not sure he wanted to anymore.

He let out a sob, then fangs were sinking into skin and blood was funnelling down his throat. And god, _oh_ the smell hadn't done it justice.

He didn't care that he was being messy, that he could feel the blood slipping over the sides of his cheeks and likely rolling down into his hair, onto Ryan's jeans, onto his couch. Right then and there Shane thought that he might actually be human because there's no way he's anything else, not with blood so warm, so thick, so full of light and life and everything sweet flooding over his tongue, making its way into his veins. Not with the way Ryan's heart is forcing that blood out faster and faster with how hard it's beating because- _Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, Shit_, how much had he taken?

He pulled back, taking staggered breaths as he finally opens his eyes, to meet Ryan's slightly dazed-looking ones, "you alright now bud?" He mumbled, slurred, and he was still bleeding, _shit_.

Shane grabbed his wrist, tugging it back down and running his tongue over it, licking up most the excess blood as the wound healed. Ryan protested with a short _"ew!"_ Tugging his wrist back as though the guy didn't just have his teeth buried into his skin and Shane snorted. _Ryan, your "no homo" is showing again, _he'd thought to himself idly, he couldn't think much else, his mind sinking into a state of bliss he never wanted to be pulled back from.

\------------------

Ryan's sure the sense of pride he got at watching Shane gorge himself on his blood was thoroughly misplaced. But that was _his_ blood making Shane look alive again, that was _his_ blood tinting pink in Shane's cheeks, that was _his_ blood running through the man's veins. It made him happy, irrationally so and he had to repress a whimper as Shane tore his fangs away, though the blissed-out look on his face as he stared up at him was entirely worth it. He looked like a junkie, pupils blown - irises back to brown, gold almost, skin still sweaty, hair still scruffy, panting - like an addict, like he was addicted to Ryan and there's no doubt in Ryan's mind that he really shouldn't be enjoying that thought as much as he is.

It wasn't until that moment, Shane's mind slowly shifting back to functioning normally, that he noticed the red puffiness under Ryan's cheeks, he decided not to comment. He doesn't want to move, he doesn't want to ever get off of Ryan, ever let him leave but then he feels Ryan's legs shifting underneath him so he tries to sit up, and suddenly one of Ryan's hands is on his back guiding him up like he's a piece of paper in the wind, fragile. It makes a soft warmth blossom from within his chest that he's not entirely sure isn't just Ryan's blood still spreading about his body.

When he's fully sat up he groans, stretching and turning, letting his feet hit the floor so he can collapse back down on the couch beside Ryan. He's now painfully aware of the blood sticking to his cheeks, the blood he can feel matting into his hair, and more uncomfortably, the blood that had slipped into his right ear and is currently making everything sound like he's underwater. He turns to face Ryan, and concern hits him like a ton of bricks as he realises his eyes are closed, he's sure he would be frowning if he had the energy. Instead, his face is unsettlingly blank, he's drank from enough people to know he needed to do something about that.

He squeezes Ryan's shoulder softly, not wanting to startle him, shaking him ever so slightly. Then his eyes flicker open, grazing over Shane lightly as if he was just his best friend, being an annoyance and shaking him awake and not some fucking predator. _A monster._

"Hey Ry, you should drink something before you sleep, or eat," then he glances down at the bloodstain on Ryan's jeans, "and maybe get some clean clothes- not that you don't pull of murder-victim chic, I just can't imagine it's very comfortable."

Ryan glances down to see what caught Shane's eye and pulls a strangled expression, before turning back to Shane, "right, and you should probably take a shower big guy."

Shane hums in agreement, though he's not too keen on the idea of leaving Ryan alone for a second, because he could slip out, he could leave. Regardless, he stands, "come on man, can you get up? I'll see if I have some orange juice or something."

Ryan groans, putting all effort into standing, he waves slightly on his feet, his sight going blurry for a second but then Shane's at his side to support him and before he knows it he's on a stool in front of the island in the kitchen with a full glass of orange juice and an apple in front of him.

He raises an eyebrow quizzically, "why an apple?"

Shane shrugs, scratching his face aimlessly, "high in iron, and I don't have much other food here so..."

He hums in response, before taking a long swing from the glass, "so is it normal to feel this, er, weak after being drank from?"

Shane stiffens slightly, obviously uncomfortable, "yeah, I mean, I may have taken a little more than I usually would but you should be fine in the morning." He mumbles, a little apologetically

"That's fine- that's cool," he nods, taking a bite of his apple and all of a sudden social interaction between the two of them seems a hell of a lot harder, "I was just wondering." He adds, as though he has to explain himself.

Once he's done with the fruit and the juice Shane had just stood there watching him consume he hops off the stool a little too quickly, which he instantly regrets because the world becomes blurry again.

Shane is there to catch him in a second, "easy little guy, let's go get you something clean to wear so you can get some rest alright?"

Ryan nods, groaning a response of agreement as he leans into Shane, letting him lead him to the bedroom.

Once they found out a pair of sweatpants that might not be insanely too long on Ryan and a plain t-shirt he insists Shane goes to shower, and so he does, taking some clean sleep pants of his own as he went.

He stands under the stream of water, preparing himself for stepping out to an empty apartment. He supposes he can't blame Ryan if he slipped out now, hell, any rational person would.

\-------------------

He's still there when Shane exits the bathroom wearing only a worn t-shirt and boxer, despite all odds, and he's not expecting that. In fact, he's laid there, on top of Shane's bed, only standing as he sees the bathroom door open with a dopey smile on his face.

He's not entirely sure why but Shane tries not to acknowledge the way his nose starts to tingle as he mumbles "thank you, Ryan I- just- thank you." And he tries to play it off like his breath doesn't catch in his throats as he speaks, like there isn't an intolerable pressure building under the skin on his face as he wills himself not to curl into the floor and start sobbing his heart out because the reality that he could lose the man in front of him again is too much.

It's just far too much and Ryan won't even understand, he's on the verge of a break down like some fucking infant who's lost their favourite toy and Ryan's just stood there, in his clothes - the sweatpants where still far too big, which meant they were rolled up excessively at the ankles - wearing that god damn look. That look that leaks concern and love and promise of a future he knows they won't have and it's just too much.

He clutches his hair in his fist, letting out a shaky breath and shaking head because he's not about to lose it right here, he's not.

"Shane, man? Are you okay?"

Shut _up, stop, please, proszę, please, because he just can't do it again, not again._

And then he's buried in Ryan's arms and all he can say is "proszę, please, don't leave me," and Ryan's stroking his back, hands small and warm against the expanse of skin, covered only by a thin layer of cotton, and it's all a little awkward because Shane is hunched over, his face buried in Ryan's hair and Ryan's face is squished against Shane's chest but he can't let go, he can't.

"Hey big guy, relax, I'm not going anywhere." And he wants to believe him, so desperately, more than he's ever believed anything but he can't, how could he? When he's seen Ryan leave so many times before? Then he's crying, full-on ugly sobbing into Ryan's hair that smells annoyingly like peppermint and he can't move his face and he has to squeeze tighter because he'll leave, he'll leave and he can't leave. He's not allowed to be scared, he's not allowed to run. Not this time, no and he's pretty sure Ryan's saying something but he can't hear because his entire world has gone out of focus with how hard he's crying. _Never, he's not leaving. Never._


	7. Credo quia absurdum est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> credo quia absurdum est  
(Latin idiom;)  
\- I believe because it is absurd

He'd slipped out of the bedroom when he'd woke up, silently glad that Ryan was still comfortably passed out on the other side of the bed. The fear of Ryan waking up first is what meant he got so little sleep in the first place. 

It was probably a little ridiculous, but he was terrified that if Ryan had woken up first he would've just slipped out his apartment without a word. 

He knew Ryan had agreed to stay the night, hell, it was Ryan who suggested they share the bed when Shane had offered to sleep on the couch. It's not like they'd never shared a bed before, but Shane figures it's a little different when you wake up with a predator, scratch that, a monster snoring beside you - because that's what he is, he reminds himself, again. _Big bad Madej, sanguisuga, bloodsucker. Fucking monster._

That's the reason why, when he'd woken up to Ryan drooling on his chest in the middle of the night he'd pushed him off and rolled him to the other side of the bed as gently as he could. It's not that he didn't _want_ Ryan slobbering on his chest and rather that he didn't want Ryan to freak out after finding himself cuddling up to a damn vampire first thing in the morning. That would scare the hell out of any normal person and Ryan? Well, he'd probably have a nervous break. And for a second, Shane almost tells himself that he's being an idiot, that Ryan would never be that scared of him because he's Shane, he's his best friend, then he almost laughs because now he is being an idiot. Of course Ryan would be that scared, he's always been afraid of the things that go bump in the night and Shane knows well enough he's no exception.

\----------------

He's sat at the island, deep in thought and slurping at coffee he didn't have the patience to let cool down a little, but that was fine, the burning on his tongue was gone as soon as it had arrived. _The perks of supernatural healing._ Anyway, he was thinking - brooding more like, because damn if he can play into vampire stereotypes sometimes without becoming a complete cliche - so hard that he didn't notice Ryan walking into the kitchen before his coffee was pulled out of his hands and the smaller man was taking a sip, only to pull back with a wince because "who the fuck drinks their coffee _black_ Shane? _What the hell_?" 

Then the mug is back down on the counter with a huff as Ryan goes to pour himself a coffee but, to his dismay when he opens the fridge, there's no milk. _Because who puts milk in their coffee, Ryan? Don't be so stupid. Real men drink it pure._

He turns to face Shane, who's turned to face him with a raised brow and a shit-eating grin on his face before taking another slow sip of his coffee.

Ryan shakes his head with a huff at that, pouring himself a glass of orange juice instead and sitting down in the stool beside Shane, "Jeez, why does everything about you have to be so intolerable?" He jokes, his voice still a little sleep-worn, it sounds all too good on him, Shane thinks - then just as quickly forgets that he thought it because _no_, just _no. Keep it in your pants, Madej._

Shane snorts as he drinks, choking on his coffee slightly, "if I'm intolerable why do you love me so much, short stack?" _Or don't, blatantly flirt, that's good too._

"Sh- short stack? Did you seriously just-" He brakes off with a wheeze, "fuck you, Shane, like seriously man, fuck you."

"Yikes, okay but can I at least finish my coffee first? I'll need the energy."

"What? I- Jesus-" He laughs, wheezes more like, "_Seriously_ intolerable." He huffs like he doesn't find everything about Shane painfully charming, finishing his glass and standing to drop it into the sink. Shane turns to watch him, eyeing the way his shirt hangs off of Ryan's body, ending midway down his thighs and the way his sweat pants are rolled up a comical amount around his ankles. That shirt was big on him too, but still, _cute. Jesus._

"My eyes are up here, big guy." Ryan laughs, his cheeks delicately pink.

"Mmm," Shane hums, but he's still looking at those sweatpants with a grin on his face and Ryan can just feel the smart ass retort coming on so he changes the subject before he gets the chance.

"I feel good." He states simply as he waltzes back over to where Shane is sitting.

"Huh?" Shane watches his over the edge of his mug, those clear-rimmed glasses of his fogging up from the steam, he doesn't bother to take them off to try to clear them. Ryan thinks there's something oddly domestic about that image that feels just slightly out of place on a fucking vampire, because that's what Shane is now, as if he could forget.

"Like I thought I'd feel dizzy or something, but that's gone now, I feel really- I don't know, clear-headed? It's weird."

Shane simply hums again in response, glancing at a spot on the floor before mumbling, "thank that apple you complained about eating."

"That's all it is, because I ate last night?"

"Yeah, probably," Shane mumbles, though he doesn't sound certain at all.

"How about you?"

"Hm?" He looks back up at Ryan, a look on his face that suggests he wasn't really paying attention.

And _God_, Ryan thinks, _was he always this hard to talk to?_

"How do you feel, after you know, feeding or whatever?"

Shane sighs, because he knows this is only one of a million questions Ryan is probably itching to ask right now, "Yeah, don't feel like I'm going to drop dead anymore, that's always good."

"What erm-" Ryan clears his throat, a little awkwardly, and Shane thinks he sees his cheeks flush this time, "what did I- what did it taste like?"

"Blood, Ryan, it tastes like blood." He states, trying to hide his surprise at the question, and he sees Ryan's face drop a little.

"So it doesn't like, taste any different to anyone else?"

"We aren't in some cheesy novel Ryan, blood is blood-" and then he sees the way Ryan's gaze drops to the floor and he figures fuck it, a little truth can't hurt, "-but it erm," he scratches the back of his neck, and Ryan's head shoots up, "it was a lot- like I, er, I wasn't expecting it to taste like so- so much I guess."

"A lot?" He asks- muses. There's that weird sense of pride again. He tries to push that down. He fails. _Naturally. Thanks, universe._

"Yeah," He laughs awkwardly, "I haven't- its rare blood is that- full I guess? I don't know- I don't..." he trails off.

"Is that good?" He asks with a confused look, an ever so slight tilt of his head.

"Yeah, Ry, it's good." Shane chuckles softly. Yeah, this much truth is okay.

"What dictates what makes blood..._full_?" His face scrunches up slightly at the word full because what does that even mean?

"It can be a lot of things it, er, well you know that thing about vampires drinking virgin blood?"There's that smirk that Ryan loves coming back into play.

"What!? No- no- I'm not-" Ryan starts suddenly, stammering, looking a little mortified.

Shane laughs because the look on Ryan's face is priceless "no, that's not what I'm saying it's like, I guess pure blood is more appealing, like from people with a pure soul or something? I don't know it's-"

"What else is there?" Ryan asks suddenly, not buying that bullshit for a second because how pure can he be? And pure? Really? That just sounds creepy. Still, why does the thought make that warmth in his chest spread?

"What?"

"You said it can be a lot of things."

"Well I know but I'm not an expert, I just drink the stuff, could you list everything that goes into making the burrito you ate the other day taste good?"

"Well no but-"

"Exactly Ryan." 

"I could read the ingredients on the menu."

"Well, humans don't come with a menu Ry."

"But-" He's cut off by a knock at the door and Shane frowns because he wasn't expecting anyone _was he?_

He stands, discarding his now empty mug on the island as he goes to check the door but then he hears the distinct _click_ of his front door unlocking before he even leaves the kitchen and suddenly the two aren't alone in the apartment anymore.

Shane's out into the hallway before Ryan can even register what's going on.

"Emery? Did you just- did you picklock my door?" Shane asks lowly, not wanting Ryan to hear, still not entirely sure what's going on himself.

"You were taking too long," He shrugs, like it's a completely normal thing to do, "there's a creepy-looking cross on the floor outside your door by the way."

"Yeah- yeah I know." Shane answers, a little dumbfounded as Emery walks out in front of him, Shane trailing behind.

"You know for how frantic you sounded on the phone yesterday you don't look very snacky," Emery states, and then he's in the kitchen and "ah, well that explains a few things." And oh, _ooh_, now Shane remembers.

Shane rolls is eyes, trailing behind him and shooting an apologetic glance Ryan's way.

\----------------------

Ryan shoots up to stand, not entirely sure what's going on as a man walks in, he doesn't look a day over twenty-five, almost as tall as Shane with long wavy brown hair that curves round his face and hazel eyes that practically glow.

None of that is what really draws his attention though, he has a long chain with some symbol he's sure he's seen before but can't place around his neck and- _his neck._ It's covered in bites and bruises that clearly weren't done by human teeth that trail down and obviously continue under his shirt. He has a white, crescent moon-shaped scar through one of his eyebrows, pointing inward toward the centre of his face._ His face_, it's sprinkled in freckles that are strangely dark for how pale his skin is- though his cheeks and nose are flushed practically red and as he grins Ryan can make out the unmistakable point of fangs sticking out between his teeth.

The guy strides in like he owns the place, dropping one of those big blue cases- a cool box? The ones used in hospitals or ambulances to store things down on the island in front of him. Ryan thinks he sees a logo for a hospital nearby on the lid of the tub, but his attention is drawn away from that a little too quickly to be certain.

"Ah, well that explains a few things." He hears the man mumble, a blatant English accent to his words, though he's been to London enough to know no one really speaks like that anymore. Then Shane's behind the man, shooting Ryan a look that he's pretty sure says_ 'I'm so sorry, this fucking guy, man.'_

"Hey, it's Ryan right?" The pale man grins as Shane shuffles to be close to Ryan again, likely worrying about how uncomfortable he is right now and okay, his heart is beating a little faster than normal but who can blame him?

"Yeah, how'd you-?"

"I'm a big fan," his grin widens, those fangs making him look almost predatory and Ryan can see Shane rolling his eyes out the corner of his own, "I watch your show all the time, I love the irony of the whole thing, Shane Madej, the vampire skeptic, genius!" And Ryan is pretty sure Shane is rolling his eyes even harder now.

"You- you watch the show?" Ryan stutters out, a little startled by the stranger's energy.

"Yeah man, and I gotta say, Boogara for life- sorry Shane but my heart lies with Ryan." Ryan can't help but frown a little at that, he's sure he should be happy about the statement but all he can focus on is how his guy sounds all Victorian England and Modern America at the same time

Shane cuts in before Ryan can reply this time, his tone entirely flat, sounding a little like a disapproving parent as he remarks, "tell me you didn't walk the street like _that_." No doubt regarding the painfully obvious bite marks down his neck, and the way his fangs stick out to look almost comically large when he speaks, were Shane's that big? How didn't he have like a fucking lisp or something?

"No of course not Shane, I got an uber, I'm not a maniac." The way he says it is almost reminiscent of Shane's own teasing tone, it's a little uncanny honestly.

"Jesus Christ," Shane huffs out with the shake of his head, "couldn't even invest in a scarf?"

"Isn't it a little hot for a scarf? In fact, it's California, It's almost always a little hot for a scarf."

"He has a point, Shane." Ryan pipes up, simply because he feels as though he's being ignored.

"Shouldn't they have healed anyway?"

_Yep, ignored._

"I didn't want them to."

"That's not how supernatural healing works, you can't just decide you don't want to heal. it's one of the only good perks of being- well this." He gestures vaguely to himself, Ryan thinks he's just avoiding saying the word vampire any more than he has to.

"Have you ever tried it, Shane?"

"Well no but I-"

"Exactly, I met someone who taught me how."

"The same person leaving all those marks on you?" And Ryan wonders if Shane knows he's coming across like a possessive asshole.

"Shane, I know you can't always help it but being my bond master doesn't mean you have to act like my dad, I'm an adult too you know?"

"I'm sorry- your what?" Ryan speaks up because _bond master? What the fuck?_

"Nothing," Shane states, a little too sharply to be believable as he shoots the other vampire a glare, who seems entirely oblivious, or maybe he just likes pissing Shane off. Yeah, it sure seems like the latter.

"He's my bond master, it means he's sired me."

"Emery." Shane almost growls out in warning.

"What? He's gotta learn!" the figure Ryan now knows as Emery snaps back, sounding like a disobedient child.

"What does it mean to sire someone?" Ryan asks, trying to cut through a little of the tension. He hopes they can't hear how hard his heart is pounding, the way his words tremble a little, he knows they can.

Shane huffs, rubbing his face with his hands as he leans over the counter, pushing his glasses up with his knuckles as he does so, Emery takes that as his cue to keep talking.

"Sire-ing, it's something that can just kinda happen sometimes with you turn someone, it means the master, _Shane_ has the ability to tell me what to do and I have to do it."

"Only if I use my sire voice - or whatever you want to call it - and I don't, because I wouldn't take away someone's free will like that." Shane cuts in, as though he needs to defend himself.

Emery looks like he wants to say something, but one look from Shane and he doesn't.

"We also have kind of a connection I guess?" Shane continues to explain, "it's like the bond a mother would have with her child, I feel responsible for Em, and he feels reliant on me, seeks comfort from me or whatever." He flails his hands to try to explain as he speaks and Emery nods along, seemingly agreeing.

"So you're like-" the noise that leaves his throat isn't quite a laugh, not nearly a wheeze either "like his second dad or something?" Then that pride is replaced by jealousy. He shouldn't be jealous of that. _What the fuck Bergara? Pull it together._

Emery snorts, "more like great, great grandad." And Shane rolls his eyes.

"Shut up Em."

"Truth hurts huh old guy?" He jokes and suddenly the tone in the room is light again because as much as Ryan figures Shane must be trying to suppress his grin it's there.

"Yeah, whatever Em, you aren't too young yourself."

\-----------------

They end up on the couch, well Ryan and Shane do, Emery is sat cross-legged on the coffee table because for some reason Shane only has one damn couch. He wants to scowl at the younger vampire, tell him to at least take his damn shoes of because how obnoxiously unhygienic can you be? He eats popcorn off that table, granted there's a bowl between the popcorn and table usually but, _still_. But he doesn't want to just tell Emery that, he wants to order him to do it, the urge to is crawling under his skin, swallowing him whole and he has to look away because he won't do that, he wouldn't. He knows how dangerous messing with the sire bond can be, one little slip and- he won't think about that right now because Ryan is saying something and it's common courtesy to at least fucking pretend to be listening.

So all his focus is on Ryan now, and that's not much better because since- since Ryan helped him, since Ryan saved him he just- he's so drawn to him, pulled in like the tide, longing to reach the moon- but maybe he always smelt that strong, maybe his heartbeat was always that loud. Maybe he's being paranoid, yeah, that's it. Then he winces, because Shane Madej being paranoid? _What on earth would the Shaniacs think?_

"Wait-" Ryan cuts himself off from whatever he was rambling about, "does this mean- are other- holy shit! Are ghosts real? Shane!?"

Shane groans, slumping down into the couch, tugging off this glasses so he can rub his face properly this time - emphasising his irritation at the question to dramatic levels.

"Holy shit! That's a yes- oh my god- holy- Jesus Christ- wait- have there been- have- have we spoken to real ghosts?"

"Jesus Ryan, calm down I don't-" he sighs, slipping his glasses back on and slouching down further, "I can't see them, just like you." Then he looks over at Emery, another one of those warning glares and it's only then Ryan looks over at him to catch the lopsided grin on his face.

"I can." Emery states then, simply, eyeing the pure frustration on Shane's face, "it's my gift."

"Wait- what?"

"Some vampires are born- reborn with a gift, aside from all the superhuman strength or whatever. Me? I was born with the sight."

\----------------

Ryan just sits there, completely stunned, _ghosts are real? Shane knew? Shane- he- Jesus._ And he has so many questions, so many things he wants to say because ghosts are real- but then, "Some vampires are born- reborn with a gift, aside from all the superhuman strength or whatever."

That creates so many more questions on its own and he thinks he should make a list but he decides to start with, "what's your gift?" his eyes are on Shane and he wonders if Shane could sink further into the couch if he tried. Ryan figures he couldn't because his knees are already stuck outward almost higher than his head, his shins pressed firmly against the edge of the coffee table and dragging his back down the couch has led to his shirt tugging up, bunching up around his waist in a way that looks borderline uncomfortable.

"I, erm- shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Yeah."

"what the fuck- that's all you're- no explanation there, just-" He puts on a deep brooding voice that's meant to resemble Shane's, "shadows." Then he's laughing.

Shane shrugs, though there's a grin on his face, because there's no point in speaking, he doesn't get the chance. If Ryan looked he'd notice Emery grinning too, because he likes seeing these two interacting off-camera, he likes seeing the reactions Ryan manages to pull out of Shane, because, despite all the arguments and fallout they've been through, he likes seeing Shane happy- and he's even pretty sure that's not just the bond talking.

Ryan doesn't see that though, because he's wheezing and talking, then wheezing again.

"Fucking- just _'shadows'_ man- Jesus, acting like you're all mysterious- you sound like- like something out of Batman, like fucking Bane or something- do you- were you, were you raised in the darkness, Shane?"

Shane's laughing too now, because how can he not with the way Ryan's body is shaking with how hard he's wheezing? He stops himself from laughing for long enough to put on the deepest voice he can manage, "Ah,-" and he's already laughing again, "you think darkness is your ally?"

Ryan's not sure he's ever laughed so hard, he feels delirious but this is all so- it's just surreal, "I don't know whether to- whether to be more upset by the fact that you actually just quoted a damn supervillain or by the fact your impression was just- Jesus that was awful."

Shane's still laughing, and Ryan allows himself to stare at the way his eyes crinkle up until he remembers there's someone sat there watching and he pulls his eyes away. Shane is still laughing when he speaks, "what, don't think I'd cut it as a supervillain? I think- I could be spookier than Bane, that guys just- he's just big, I'm tall enough to be scary."

Ryan doesn't miss the way Emery grins this time, but what he doesn't know is that it's because Shane's rambling in a way he's picked up from Ryan, desperate to keep talking as his words are cut up by wheezes and Shane, he was always a fun guy, but he never laughed like that before Ryan. Never. Or at least not since Emery has been around.

They argue for a while, all empty jabs and giggles and taunts about who would be the better villain, Emery even gets dragged in when Ryan jokes about him having that cliche British villain accent. Ryan decides then that he likes Emery, even if he is a little strange and - oh yeah, a vampire. Even if the way he looks today has clearly pissed Shane off because, overall, he's the kind of guy Ryan could imagine himself being friends with, plus, he really is good at winding Shane up the wrong way and he thinks he might have to take some tips.

\----------------------

It's when they are walking Emery to the door when he says it, "Oh, Shane, do you mind if I take that cross if it's still outside? I'm thinking of starting a collection."

It was a simple question, if not a little weird but it hits Shane a little too hard because he knows what's coming next, "why would you take that are you- don't you like- freak out when you see those?"

Shane winces inwardly, because Jesus, he didn't expect this topic of conversation to come up this quickly, and he's not sure he likes where this is going.

"The cross?" Emery asks, face scrunched up in confusion, "why would I fre- _oh_." He glances up at Shane, who bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth as he stares at the floor because he doesn't like this, not one bit.

"Wait- I'm confused Shane- Shane definitely freaked out when he saw it."

Emery nods, almost solemnly, Shane doesn't look but he's sure Ryan's gaze is flickering between the two of them, his brows furrowed. He can feel the way his heartbeat increases again, almost as though it's his own.

"Shane's- the crosses, that, erm, that's- that's a Shane thing."

And he winces again, not only because of the confession but because Emery doesn't hedge or stammer like that, it's not right. Because how does he explain that without Ryan thinking he's some kind of fucking demon all over again? Because how does he explain that this is an entirely human Shane thing that maybe got a little weirder after he turned - something entirely psychological because he knows that cross out there can't really hurt him, vampire or not but it's all he sees, all he feels, that searing pain and just really can't look at one for long. He wants to cry, but he won't, he won't, he did that enough last night. He's stronger than that he can just- he'll just-

"A Shane thing? What does that even mean?"

Shane's looking down, not speaking because he can't, not now, not yet, Ryan doesn't need to know his tortured past.

"I can't- that's something- Shane will have to tell you that."

Ryan's heart is pounding harder, he's stressed, confused, scared - _you scared him again, fucking idiot. _"I- why?"

Emery doesn't reply to that, but Shane is pretty sure he's replying with his eyes because then he's clearing his throat, "well, this was fun, I'll take that cross off your hands, nice to meet you, Ryan, it was lovely to see you again Shane." Then the door is slammed shut and Shane is stood there, wondering if one of his socks is slightly more black than the other - and yeah the other does look just barely more faded but he should probably stop staring at his feet.

"So are we gonna-"

He lifts his head, eyes meeting Ryan's as he speaks, then he looks away, interrupting, "I'll tell you, just- just not right now, I can't do this right now." He hopes Ryan can hear the strain in his voice, notices the way his jaw tightens, telltale signs he's about to break down crying if they don't just move on. _Please, Ryan, move on._

"Oh- okay," Ryan mutters, his heart still pounding _God, please Ryan, don't freak out._

"It's nothing ba- it's, I just- It's not something I like to think about Ry." He corrects himself, because it is something bad, something so awful he can't bear to talk about it.

He nods in response, "okay, okay I believe you, do you erm, wanna just...watch a movie or something?"

Shane raises his eyebrows before a soft smile falls onto his face; Ryan is giving him an out, he isn't pushing at it in regular Ryan fashion and he's all too grateful for that.

"Sure, I'll go make the popcorn."


	8. Ocal mnie z piekła

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ocal mnie z piekła:  
(Polish;)  
\- save me from my hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I use italics and curse far too much but what can you do?
> 
> I definitely didn't decide to format this for AO3 today to procrastinate finishing my university applications :))

It's cold. It's so cold. He can't feel, except he must be able to, because he knows it's cold, he can feel that in his fucking soul. Maybe it _is_ his soul that's cold. No, that's ridiculous, and it's fucking freezing. Fucking freezing to the point where if he doesn't move he's pretty sure he's going to die.

It's dark too. Really damn dark. Or maybe his eyes are shut? Yeah. Of course they are.

He winces, a faint droning in his skull, he can't open his eyes and he's mildly aware that whatever is beneath him is not his fucking bed. It's not the ground either, it's too cold to be the ground, too stiff, too-_ is that wet? No, what the-_

Then he smells it, so strong yet painfully dull, stale and muted with something far thicker, far denser. It's all around him, it's smothering. It's all-consuming. He wants to drown in it. 

He can't open his eyes.

He can't breathe.

He recognises that smell, the fainter one, he's been around it enough. Its blood, stale and dried and mottled in something indistinguishable but there it is. Blood. _Oh_. Cold. Stiff. _Ah_. There's a body beneath him. A corpse, because of course, what else would it be?

He tries to push himself up, to move, to get away, so maybe he can breathe, so maybe he can see but he can't. He can't move, there's something there, all around him, oppressive and sodden and he's panicking now. He's pretty sure he should be able to hear the frantic beating of his own heart, but he can't even feel it. But he's panicking, and his head is spinning and his head- he can't- he gasps, swallows what he thinks is air but none gets in. It tastes earthy and acidic and he's choking because it's coating his lungs and he can't fucking breathe. He'll die here, he's sure of it, so sure. Or maybe he won't. Maybe that's worse.

_Czy ja umieram, Ojcze? am I dying, father?_

He coughs, splutters then inhales sharply and that's definitely worse, that hurts, that's- whatever it is feels sharp, jagged like rocks and gravel cutting up his nose, sticking in his throat and no doubt tearing it apart. It's thick, like smog and cutting like knives and it's agony. He'd know, pain is something he's all too accustomed to.

He tries to scramble away, to push up, down, aside, _fucking anywhere_ but he knows what's happening now. He knows what this is. He's going to die here. Maybe he already is, dead and buried.

But he can't be dead, he can't be because he _feels_ this, he feels all of this, this pain, this suffering and he's crying - he thinks, he can't really tell, he's still not fully sure his eyes are open - but then there's something he's desperately trying to blink away and yeah, his eyes were definitely open. That's definitely not a good thing.

He tries again, for another ragged breath of air, it's not voluntary, his lungs are just heaving and he's inhaling again, his nails, his fingers digging into mud and he tries to breathe, so desperately.

_proszę pomóż mi, błagam, please help me, I beg_.

It's then he catches it again, that second smell, the one that he'd almost forgotten about because he's choking on rocks and dirt and he's not fucking breathing but its there. He wants it, he really doesn't know why. Insanity maybe, desperation, some kind of crazed mania people feel in the moments before their death. Then he's clawing at the body beneath him - on top of him? He's not sure which way is up anymore - he's clawing for something, desperate, longing, needing. _Proszę, please._

His fingers scrape at something along the stiffness, this flaking away under his touch and maybe, just maybe if he twists his neck to the left a little, then he's nose to- to skin with a dead body and he risks opening his mouth again, letting his tongue slip out and what the fuck is this? What is he doing?

It tastes awful, like fucking cyanide or something he thinks, he doesn't know, because he's never drunk fucking cyanide, it's bitter wrong and god he can taste the skin beneath it, feel it cold and unyielding on his tongue but he can't, won't stop. He doesn't want to. It's hell and heaven rolled into one, another point in the _'I'm really fucking dead collum'_, but he's not, surely not.

He doesn't know how long he's there, lapping up blood, dried and crusted and rotten, mud-slicked in a way that makes his stomach lurch and oh _Domine, God,_ the only thing that could make this worse would be him throwing up right now. So he twists, it's painful and he's pretty sure he hears more than feels a bone in his leg snap completely in two, getting snagged on a goddamn corpse or something.

Then he's digging, well, scraping, dirt building up under his nails, rocks pushing them up away from his fingers, splitting them in two, leaving his fingers raw and bleeding and all the dirt is falling down onto his face, choking him further. He might just give up. He might not make it. On the plus side, he thinks he can hear his heartbeat now, quiet, feeble but somewhat amplified in his mud-filled ears and maybe he isn't dead. Or maybe this is hell. Maybe he deserves this. Maybe he doesn't get to escape it.  
_ocal mnie z piekła, save me from my hell._  
Maybe death would be better.

It's hours, it must be, his fingers are numb, damp and dirty and bleeding and god, he really is going to throw up, but then he sees it. Light. He thanks God, because he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't digging himself deeper into his own grave this whole time. Then he's dragging himself up, fingers clinging to snow as he tugs and tugs, forcing his body to follow and oh fuck, his leg, why couldn't that have gone numb?

It's raining, turning the mud and snow beneath his fingers into sludge as he pulls up because there's nothing else he can do and at some point, he's on his stomach, chest down in snow and blood and god knows whatever else smothers the land. He rolls onto his back.

He's coughing, heaving, spitting up blood and dirt and rocks and yep, that's definitely a worm.

_Domine, adiuva me. God, help me._ He thinks briefly, as if the bastard is listening, _kurwa. Fuck._ And he's still panting, heaving, drooling onto the snowy ground. Up here, well, everything is dead. The tree branches bear no fruit, or blossoms or leaves, the snow smothers any chance the grass has of living and the sky is a shade of grey he's not sure he's ever seen before. He's not fully convinced he isn't dead. But he does, recognise this place, recognise the hole he pulled himself out of for what it was. A war grave, full with nameless bodies, his comrades, people he probably fought alongside and he- he fucking licked- and he's gagging again.

He's on his side now, spit and bile and dirt collecting in a watery pile beside his face and he needs to move. He needs to find any living comrades he might still have before he gets left behind. He's probably already too late. Still, he staggers, his arms not quite willing to take his weight at first as he pushes himself up. He manages and he forgot, how could he forget about the damn leg?

He looks up, the rain doesn't make it easy, but he also thinks the rain is probably the only thing muting the scent of rotting right now so he'll be damn grateful. Anyway, he looks up, trying to find a small break in the clouds, a little burst of sunlight so he can try to find true north, so he can walk in one direction and hopefully eventually hit civilisation. He drags himself to stand, forces himself to once he finds it. In all honesty, he has no clue what time of day it is, whether the sun is rising or setting. So in reality, it's probably not even north he's walking toward. Walking is a strong word, especially when his leg snags on something and he trips, falling face-first back into the snow and sludge. He whimpers, pulling his leg up to his chest instinctively as he tries to ignore the nausea building back up at the pain. 

With a shuddering breath, he tries to steel himself, before looking back toward what he'd tripped over then he really does gag. Heaving _again_, nothing but spit coming up as his nose and the corner of his eyes burn. He's not gagging because he just tripped over a severed arm, no he'd seen plenty of those, he's gagging because the blood oozing out of it is still fresh and he _wants_ it. He wants it so badly he has to sink his teeth into his dirtied knuckles to prevent himself from lunging for it, he's not sure how long he sits there, sobbing, whimpering, gagging over his own hand.

What he is sure of, in that exact moment, is that he, _Mikolaj Casimir Madej,_ is no longer human. No, it's in that exact moment, as his will breaks and he lunges like a wild fucking animal for the dismembered limb he brands himself. _Dziwoląg, monster._ Because maybe, all those years ago, the priest had been right. His mother had been right, and he's gagging again because she was right, and he had killed her for it.

\------------------

He's coughing, spluttering, choking on blood- dirt, and his eyes won't open, but then they do. They do and he's sitting up. It's dark but the sheets weighing down his legs tell him he's in bed and he can't breathe, but then suddenly he can but he's still hacking up some invisible substance, one shaking hand on his throat, the other raking through his sweat-slicked hair. There's one lingering thought he can't rid himself of, _monster_, like a mantra in his head and he thinks he's crying but his face is numb from a non-existent cold so he doesn't really know.

"_Shane?_" If he wasn't already in the midst of a panic attack he'd probably read something into the fact that Ryan hadn't gone home last night. The fact that they hadn't even spoken about it, Shane has gone to bed and Ryan had just kinda followed. He'd think into that a little more and what it all means if he wasn't trembling, if his nose wasn't running and his throat wasn't burning as though he'd been swallowing fire.

"Shit- Shane hey, are you- what happened? What's going on?" If he wasn't already losing his goddamn mind he would probably think about how concerned and strained and sleep-worn Ryan had sounded. He'd consider what Ryan's caring but cautious hand on his shoulder meant without simply shoving it off.

"Cholera, niech to szlag trafi," _shit, damn it._ He murmurs, stammers, stutters.

"Domine," _God_. He runs his hands through his hair, again, again, _again_ and tries to repress the urge to shove his fingers down the back of his throat and choke up whatever his mind has convinced rest of his body it needs to rid itself of. Instead, he pushes himself up, sliding his legs off the bed so he's sat on the edge, resting his elbows on his knees. He buries his face in his hands, trying to regulate his breathing. He knows somewhere in his head that he shouldn't have pushed Ryan off, he was just trying to help but he can hear that pounding of his heart again it's so damn distracting, he can't be near that right now.

"Kurwa." _Fuck_. He huffs, followed by, "Kurwa. Kurwa. Kurwa." He thinks he's losing it, maybe it is. The universe has great timing like that. Maybe if he starts heaving over the toilet right now a few kernels of undigested popcorn might come up and he'll feel better. That's stupid though, popcorn isn't close to the cause of his breakdown.

"Shane what are you- I don't understand, what's going on?" and he's trying, Ryan is trying so hard and Shane knows it and it kills him because he shouldn't have to try, he shouldn't have to put up with this.

"Przepraszam- sorry- I'm sorry- I-" He shakes his head, buries it back in his hands, pretends he isn't trembling.

"Sorry? What? Shane no I- what-"

He doesn't get to finish, because Shane is standing, shakily, one of his legs falters for a moment, as though he's forgotten how to work it, as though he didn't expect it two work, then he disappears behind the bathroom door.

\------------------

He pulls back, because there's something beneath him, hot and soft and so sweet-smelling. There's taste too, something on his tongue, sweet and sour and _Shane_, god it tastes just like Shane, it's indescribably perfect. Then he's pulled back and there's blood, and a neck, and puncture marks and he runs his tongue over his fangs and - _wait - fangs? When did they get there?_

Then there's Shane, looking all dopey and bleary-eyed and it's his neck, it's his body beneath him instead of the bed and he's grinning, fangs prodding his lower lip. He looks good like that, Ryan allows himself to think. Then he shakes his head to avoid saying it out loud because he's pretty sure no one wants to hear, _'you look pretty damn good with your own blood trailing down your neck.' _\- then again, he's pretty sure he'd like to hear that.

"You took more than usual." He hums, though he doesn't seem bothered, if anything he seems all too pleased, trying to tilt his head enough to be able to see the carnage left behind by Ryan - as though he couldn't just stand up and look in the mirror. It's probably a good thing he doesn't try that because there's a small chance he might just collapse or something.

"You didn't stop me," Ryan mutters, a little disgruntled, a little disoriented - what the fuck was going on? Why wasn't he a little more distressed? Why was Shane okay with the fact Ryan apparently now has fangs and just- just bit into his neck like it was a damn breakfast burrito.

"I didn't want you to stop, come on Ry, it's not like you can kill me and it feels- you feel so good. Your fangs under my skin Ry, I've never felt- I swear it's like-" He's rambling, slurring slightly, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. Ryan thinks, a little crudely, that he looks like he's just been fucked into a new dimension, a dimension where Ryan is a goddamn vampire apparently.

"Shane." Ryan tries to sound firm, but he's smiling, probably blushing - he doesn't know, he can't see his own face. His cheeks sure do feel warmer than usual though, not that usual is very hot at all anymore. _Anymore? Since when-_

Shane's already grinning, that sly, teasing look in his eye. "What? You don't like hearing about how good you feel inside me? That's a shame because I was just about to suggest-"

"Shane." Ryan practically groans this time, rolling off from where he'd found himself straddling Shane to lie on the empty side of the bed. 

"Alright alright, I know, we'll be late for work." Yet, despite knowing that neither of them show any signs of moving. It's nice like this, all their real-life worries on the backburner. It doesn't feel quite right though, because while Shane might be sometimes Ryan has never been the type to leave work waiting on the sidelines. Not even for a bout of morning sex in which he can only imagine there would be an uncivilised amount of biting. The joys of dating a vampire. The joys of _being_ a vampire, apparently.

"You're a big idiot you know?" Ryan grins, his voice entirely playful as he turns to his side to look at Shane, who does the same - his neck is still dripping with blood, _that's distracting._

"_Big_ idiot? Why do you always draw attention to my size? Wait! Are you objectifying me Bergara? I'm shocked!" He rests a hand upon his chest, covering his heart with a mock surprised face to top it off, _asshole- adorable asshole_.

"Shane if you don't shut up I'll bite you, that doesn't even- jeez, shut up." Ryan retorts, then instantly regrets it.

"I'm not sure you know how threats work babe," Shane quips, then he snorts to himself, "size queen Bergara, that has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Shut up, Shane."

He grins, hand slipping around the back of Ryan's neck to tug him over into a kiss, soft and over far too quickly, "well since you asked nicely," he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows in that stupidly suggestive way that always made Ryan laugh before pulling him into another kiss, just as soft. Ryan thinks it's just an excuse to taste his blood on Ryan's lips, but he's not going to complain because yes, making out is indeed one of the few ways to effectively get Shane Madej to shut the hell up.

\------------------

He gasps, head snapping up at the sound of Shane mumbling something, then he realises Shane isn't lying beside him anymore. He's sat up, he's hunched over, he's crying.

"Shane?" He asks, then cringes because his voice sounds ragged with disuse and his concern doesn't come out quite right.

Shane mumbles something else, unintelligible, in some other language maybe, it sounds archaic, that's probably just his imagination.

"Shit- Shane hey, are you- what happened? What's going on?" He practically stammers, his heart jumping up into his throat, mind spinning with different possibilities of what could've happened. He reaches out a hand, it rests on what he thinks is Shane's shoulder for less than a second before it's shoved off and then Shane is mumbling again, apologising as he shifts on the bed.

"Sorry? What? Shane no I- what-"

Then he's gone. He thinks he hears the shower running. Huh.

Maybe he should read into that dream, but nah. It was probably nothing, _right?_


	9. Za bardzo cię kocham, ale nie mogę przestać

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> za bardzo cię kocham, ale nie mogę przestać:  
(Polish;)  
\- I love you too much, but I cannot stop

When Shane comes back from the bathroom he expects Ryan to be gone, so when he's sat there on the edge of the bed with a concerned look on his face he gets hit with a twisted mix of relief and deja vu. He wonders if this is going to become a theme in their <strike>relationship</strike>\- friendship, Shane ducking into a room and expecting Ryan to disappear, only for him to still be there.

He's always waiting patiently, or trying to look patient and failing - overly fidgety in very Bergara fashion. Ryan has never been the patient type, Shane doesn't know who he's trying to fool. 

If Ryan noticed his red-rimmed eyes he doesn't say anything, which he's grateful for. He ponders how obvious it is that he went into there just to sob in private. Pretty obvious, probably. But the fact he doesn't get immediately called out on it makes him feel a little better.

"Hey." He mutters, voice hoarse, tired and croaky. That's the least of his worries. What's a sore throat to a vampire right? (Likely pretty serious, it was last time, but it's fine, his throat just hasn't fully woken up from sleep. He's being dramatic.) 

"Hey," Ryan repeats, the tightness of his frown seems to evaporate slightly at the sight of Shane there in front of him. Shane can't pretend to understand that, though it makes his undead heart throb a little. Well, a lot, because Ryan's blood is still in his system, giving him that luxury._ You bit Ryan_, he reminds himself, scolding, _you're getting reckless_.

He continues to blatantly ignore the fact that Ryan practically forced his wrist into his mouth to save his life - at least Ryan must've thought he was saving his life, though he was only stopping him from going feral, which when Shane really thinks about it, yeah, Ryan saved his life. _Whatever, you still shouldn't have bitten him._

"Are we- do you want to tell me what just happened?"

Ah. It was inevitable really, of course he'd ask. He's Ryan, and Ryan cares, maybe he's still trying to deny the fact that it's a monster he cares for. That's what he is, and he's not likely to forget it this morning, not with the remnants of that dream still lingering. Than dream reminding him of the very moment he became a thing of nightmares - the thing of Ryan's nightmares from now on, most likely. Speaking of nightmares, hadn't Ryan just asked him something? 

"I- it was just...you know, I had a dream." He mutters a little awkwardly, running his hand through his sweat-slicked hair, vaguely aware that he probably doesn't have time for a shower if he wants to be on time for work, but he thinks he definitely needs one. He wants to cringe at how juvenile he sounded, but no, he certainly does not want to talk about what just happened.

He can tell by the look in Ryan's eye though that he's definitely going to push it. Great.

"Do you usually learn foreign languages in your nightmares?"

_Oh_, he knows Ryan is being a smartass, but of all the questions he must be dying to ask, it's certainly not the worst.

"That was- no. I speak polish, well, spoke polish. My mother would be mortified with how little I know now." He laughs, chuckles, and again he sounds far too awkward, "I slip into it sometimes when I'm stressed I guess." _My mother would be mortified by a lot of things, like the fact I killed her, but that's a topic for another time._ He thinks maybe he should stop being so hard on himself over things that happened in the past. He thinks if he knew how to stop he would.

He wraps his arms around himself, feeling a little vulnerable. His past really isn't one of his favourite topics and he'd greatly appreciate it if they left this conversation right here, _thank you._

"Is that where you were born, Poland?" Ryan presses, and Shane's just grateful the conversation is taking some sort of turn, even if it's still his past, at least it's not about the nightmare. Not directly anyway. Still, dangerous territory. Far too dangerous to relax, not that his body would let him relax if he tried.

"Yeah, I haven't really thought about it in a while, I've forgotten most of my time there." He sighs, reaching over to his bedside table for his glasses then sitting down on the bed beside Ryan with a soft _thud_ as he slips them on.

Saying I forgot is technically not a complete lie and an easy way out of this conversation. He knows Ryan will ask about his past eventually, but as long as he can avoid it for this morning he'll call it a win.

"Tell me something."

"Huh?" He wonders if his voice sounds as pitchy as he thinks it does. He should really start keeping a glass of water on his bedside table for times like these. Or maybe something a little stronger, but he'll take whatever he can get.

"In Polish, tell me something."

Shane frowns softly, his head tilting in thought, trying to conjure up all he remembers of a half-forgotten language. He remembers quite a bit when he really thinks on it, but he's not a fan of thinking too hard when he can help it. Usually, he can't, so if he can stop himself remembering this language it's like he's winning some internal war within himself. Which is dumb in itself because his language is the one thing he's probably like to remember. Still, if to win is to forget, he'll try his goddamn hardest.

"Ale nie mogę kochać cię, ani trochę mniej."

"What does _that_ mean?" Ryan's face twists in confusion, which isn't concern, so Shane is on a real winning streak this morning. 

It means_ 'I love you too much, but I cannot stop,'_ It means _I think you would be the death of me if I wasn't already dead._ It means _you're my entire world, but I can't tell you, because I don't deserve you._ It means _you're a million times better than this monster sat beside you and you don't even know it._

It means all the things Shane Madej is far too scared to say because everyone is scared of something.

Shane shrugs, a sly smile on his face, "I don't know."

Maybe he should regret saying it, maybe he does as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it's not like Ryan will ever figure it out. Unless of course he spends the next couple months painstakingly learning a new language and somehow remembers exactly what words he said in what order but who would do that? Ryan. That sounds exactly like the type of thing Ryan would do. Oh well. No point complaining now. Once you've made your bed, right?

"You- you can't- I'm going to be trying to figure that out all day!"

"And I'm sure you'll figure it out," he grins, stands, ruffles Ryan's hair like he's a child, "I'm gonna take a quick shower, don't think too hard while I'm gone, I might even speak some Latin to you when I come back." He throws a joking wink on at the end of that, "Or maybe you can talk dirty to me in Spanish."

"You speak Latin?" Ryan asks, incredulously, apparently ignoring the second half of Shane's statement.

"Yeah, prayers mostly."

"Oh- yeah, cool- cool, I look forward to it."

And he can almost hear Ryan thinking too loud as he leaves the room, something along the lines of,_ 'how can you speak prayers but flinch at the sight of a cross'_ but he can't be sure, mind reading isn't one of his abilities, he's just good at knowing what Ryan's thinking. A skill to be proud of in itself really. Ryan thinks a lot.

\-------------------------------------------

There's a plate of waffles sat waiting for him once he's dressed, stood in the kitchen, hair still dripping onto his pale blue button-down as he eyes the plate with suspicion, "Waffles?"

He quirks up a brow as if there's some trick there. As if the innocent breakfast treat has some dark connotation. _Just because you have some dark secrets doesn't mean your waffles do Shane_, he thinks snidely to himself.

"Waffles." Ryan confirms with a grin, "I've already eaten mine, mind if I hit the shower?"

"As long as you don't leave any bruises." Shane retorts without really thinking about it, still eyeing the plate like it's offended him somehow. Like one of the little blueberries on top is suddenly going to come alive wielding a stake and attack him and scream out: _"Die! Vampire scum!"._ Then he smiles despite himself because thinking of fruit with little faces is making him think of the hot daga and thinking of the hot daga is making him think of annoying Ryan even more. God, does he love annoying Ryan.

Ryan just rolls his eyes as he trudges off in the direction of the bedroom, then to the bathroom door within.

He watches Ryan's back until he's out of sight and then frowns back down at the waffles, then at the opened and empty coolbox on the side. His brows furrow further as he makes his way over to the fridge, where sure enough it's stacked with blood bags.

Ryan stacked his fridge with _blood_. Then made him _breakfast. _

"What the fuck?" He mumbles under his breath, looking back over to the waffles. 

What was this? it was a gesture, it had to be, maybe a _'look, Shane, I can handle this, this isn't too much for me.'_ He's not sure, he doesn't know if he wants it to be.

It all feels so weirdly domestic, and suddenly Ryan being in his shower feels weird. Which really is stupid, because he's stayed over plenty of times when he's been too drunk to get home safely. He's spent plenty of mornings in Shane's shower, washing away the sambuca that somehow ended up in his hair.

This wasn't weird. This was normal. The fact that this should be normal only seems to make it weirder.

God, he needs to pull himself together, they are just waffles. Waffles Ryan made for him, then plated up with syrup and blueberries and- _okay_, he really needs to stop. Just waffles. That's all. There's no hidden meaning, no ulterior motive. Just waffles, exactly the way Ryan knows he likes them. Because Ryan knows little intricacies about him like that. All best friends do. That's normal.

He lets out a deep exhale, sitting down at the island, he feels like he'll make it weirder if Ryan walks back in and he'd just been stood there glancing between the fridge and his now lukewarm waffles the entire time.

He takes a bite, and they're good. Of course they are, all waffles are good. It's got nothing to do with Ryan and everything to do with the big hunk of fried batter in front of him. Why would Ryan factor into the way the waffles taste?

_Waffles, he cooked me waffles._

\---------------------------------------------

It's about two hours into their usual work hours (which they showed up exactly 1 hour and 37 minutes late for, but who's counting?) when Ryan first starts to notice how irritable Shane is being. It's less than a minute later he realises Shane might also be twice as pale as he was in the morning.

Ryan isn't stupid. He knows Shane is hungry, he's just not entirely sure why.

They'd talked about this and Shane had made it clear he could go days if not weeks without drinking before the starvation kicks in, so why did he look like an emaciated puppy? Okay, maybe that's a little harsh, but still, he didn't look healthy. Though he thinks that maybe Shane's always been just this side of too pale and he's just never noticed it before. Or maybe he wrote it off as a midwestern thing.

He waits another half an hour before he decides he's collected enough data to justify his hypothesis that Shane Madej is indeed one thirsty motherfucker - so to speak.

Evidence No. One; Shane snapped at Sara for putting too much sugar in his coffee that she kindly brought to him this morning, despite him telling Ryan a couple of weeks ago that Sara had been adding one too many spoons of sugar in his coffee for the last three years and he's never had the nerve to correct her. He usually just drinks it. Because he's Shane and confrontation is the devil, even if Sara would just laugh it off. Shane always kept quiet off camera - unless it was to get a rise out of Ryan, but that's not the point right now - another midwestern thing, Ryan had always figured.

Evidence No. Two; When Curly came up to their desks to make a suggestive comment and complimentary eyebrow wiggle about them coming in late to work together - with Shane looking "dishevelled" as he'd put it - Shane unkindly told him to fuck off, and it was undoubtedly lacking his usual carefree tone. Curly didn't really seem to take it to heart though, no doubt considering it greater evidence that the two really were "doing the do" as Shane had so eloquently put it one day when he was in a considerably better mood.

Evidence No. Three; Ryan knows Shane. He doesn't need any more evidence okay? Shut up.

So, with all his key data laid out in a spreadsheet, he clears his throat to gain Shane's attention, before dragging him into an empty conference room. 

\---------------------------------------------

"Hey, Shane, you okay man?" Ryan asks, voice a little shaky. Okay really shaky, but he doesn't need judgement right now, he's worried, it's normal.

"Yeah, I'm fine, great, super- what are we in here for again?" Shane frowns, turning in a kind of half-circle before giving up, because moving felt like a real effort all of a sudden. Or maybe he just doesn't want to have to stop looking at Ryan.

"I haven't told you yet."

Well, that makes sense, Shane concedes. Still doesn't explain what he's here for though unless it's for an impromptu makeout session, which he highly doubts. The mood is all wrong. Plus it's Ryan stood in front of him. And they are at work. Yeah, probably not then, kinda sucks.

"Right...so what are we in here for then? It feels like I'm being called into the principle's office, what have I done this time Mr Bergara? I promise whatever it was it was Curly, not me."

Ryan almost laughs, but he stops himself because he's not going to buy into this stupid coping mechanism. Though he wishes very quickly he laughed because Shane gets all awkward when one of his jokes flops, like a man isn't allowed to mess up every once in a while. Like his only purpose is to make people laugh.

"Shane, I- are you hungry?" He sighs, wishing it didn't come out so blunt, but whatever, it's out there now.

Shane opens his mouth, likey about to continue the bit when his mind properly processes what Ryan has asked him.

"I guess I could go for a hotdog, maybe even a good ol' slice of 'za, I'm feeling exotic today--"

"--Since when is pizza exotic?"

"Never heard of Hawaiian, I've heard they put little pieces of pineapple on there, crazy right?"

"Never heard of- Shane- we did a whole video about pineapple on pizza I was in it- you!- you scripted it!"

Shane puts on an exaggerated frown that Ryan is sure is supposed to look thoughtful, "Nah, don't recall Ry."

"You- whatever, you know that's not what I meant."

"What's not what you meant?"

"Jeez dude, I'm going to ask you again, are you hungry?" Ryan gives Shane a hard look, it could be classed as a glare maybe and when he hears Shane sigh he knows it worked.

"Eh, a little snacky maybe, it's nothing to worry about Ry, this is what the blood bags are for, remember?"

"If you- if you need to drink you could always just...you know." And then Ryan is offering up his wrist and the flash of hunger, no, greed in Shane's eyes is something animalistic before he turns away. Squeezing them tightly shut because_ Jesus, it's just a damn wrist._

"No- really Ryan, I'm fine, just- don't you have a script to be working on?" He sounds snappy all of a sudden, unnecessarily harsh, Ryan's gaze hardens. Definitely a glare.

"Jeez okay, I was just offering to help, no need to be a dick about it." He pushes past Shane, out the door into the hallway and back to his desk. He's not sure if his face is red from anger or embarrassment, he's pretty sure they are both equally irrational. He offered up his wrist and Shane rejected it, that's fine, he just wasn't hungry. It's not like he's too kind to admit Ryan's blood isn't good enough or something. It's fine. He's not really angry, not at all.

They don't speak to each other for the rest of the workday.

Ryan thinks that Shane is ignoring him, but that's perfectly fine, he was ignoring Shane too - but he's not angry, or embarrassed, or upset or something similar, he swears it.

\------------------------------------------

Ryan was right, and now he's drawn attention to it Shane can't pretend to ignore it. He's hungry. He's not starving or anything but he can feel it, the dull buzzing in the back of his skull, the way all his movements seem a little more languid. He'd hoped it was in his head, he'd prayed because this wasn't right.

Now he was on his way home from work, stuck in traffic and tapping his steering wheel in hopes that the guy about sixty vehicles in front would just _speed the fuck up_. He sighs, briefly wondering why there's so much appeal to having sports cars like the one beside him - with its windows open, blaring music obnoxiously loud, mind you - in downtown LA when no car ever seems to go above 10mph on a good day.

It was times like this that made him miss his quaint little town in the midwest. It was times like this that made him miss a time before there were cars. Jesus, what first world problems -_ this city has too many cars! Damn postmodernity for bringing about affordable transportation!_ Still, he had a right to be stressed, his body was definitively not working the way it was reprogrammed to the day he died and seriously, fuck LA traffic. 

When the traffic does start to filter out he may find himself going slightly over the speed limit, but no one needs to know about that, and he'll politely take back what he thought about never going above 10mph without further comment.

Then he's back at his apartment, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary and barging into the kitchen. He pulls out a blood bag, doesn't bother checking the blood type, it doesn't matter because it won't taste like Ryan's either way, and that's what he wants. He's a predator, a leech, a fucking addict and one hit from his bouncy best friend and he's smitten. Maybe smitten is too nice a word, he's smitten with Ryan, not his blood. What he has for Ryan's blood is more of an insatiable craving, but he's sure he'll get over it. No one ever has trouble getting over addictions, right? 

He doesn't take off the cap and pour it into a glass like a civilized vampire would, because he isn't feeling very civilised all of a sudden - and the phrase _'civilised vampire' _feels like some sort of oxymoron right now. So instead he sinks his fangs straight into the side of the bag and he sucks like his fucking life depends on it.

It's chalky, woody, bitter, but it'll do as he takes his gulp because he's pretty sure he could drink rat blood and it'd still feel good - if it wasn't for all the diseases.

While it's not fresh it's better, in some ways, than it would be to sink his fangs into the neck of some stranger in the dimly lit bathroom stall of some club. Stangers at clubs usually have a hell of a lot of alcohol in their system which means their blood is a lot thinner than usual. Alternatively, if he wants a good night out, it is the quickest way for him to get drunk.

The point is, the blood bags aren't really all that bad once you get past the awful taste, sure it's no Ryan - and he's going to leave that analogy right there before he loses himself thinking of biting Ryan again - but nutritionally they aren't bad, and at least he knows they are ethically sourced.

So all in all, when he removes his fangs from the bag - where they definitely don't get caught and he definitely isn't left trying to tug his teeth out of a sheet of plastic for a good thirty seconds, because that would be embarrassing - he feels pretty refreshed. Sure he's still not entirely full but he's too tired to care so he pointedly ignores the small puddle of blood on his kitchen floor as he throws the empty blood bag in the trash and collapses on his bed without so much as removing his socks.

Who cares if it's only seven-thirty, when a vampires gotta sleep, a vampires gotta sleep.


	10. Gdyż cienie przeszłości jeszcze się nie rozproszyły

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gdyż cienie przeszłości jeszcze się nie rozproszyły:  
(polish;)  
\- because the shadows of the past have not yet disappeared

The room is dark when he wakes, he vaguely remembers getting home angry, slamming his apartment door as though Shane would somehow be able to hear it. Hell on a quiet night, with his vampire hearing maybe he could. It's a shame there aren't any quiet nights in LA. He doesn't remember getting into bed, but he must have, that's where he is now. He's vaguely aware he's sweating in the cold room, the kind of cold that's cutting, a jarring thing to wake up to, really. It's the aftermath of a nightmare, probably, it wouldn't come as a surprise.

A nightmare definitely, because he remembers the darkness._ "some vampires are born- reborn with a gift-"_ he shakes his head as he looks outward across the room - but he doesn't think his head actually moves, he's too tired to be sure, but it's definitely still firm against the pillow. A strangely hot pillow, given how cold the room feels.

His eyes meet shadows- if you could even call them that._ "-aside from all the superhuman strength or whatever."_ He thinks he prefers the term _'darkness'_, it fits better, shadows need light, something solid, this is something other, ethereal. Shadows don't hang like that. It's the darkness from his dreams, hanging jaggedly and unnatural in the corners of his room, thick, blacker than black. It's hazy at the edges in an uncanny way, in a way that screams danger. In a way that tells him to run.

_"what's your gift?"_

He tries. Makes to move to get off of the bed, to get away, anywhere away from this thing, creature, demon.

He's paralyzed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's vaguely aware that this is just sleep paralysis, that this is common, that doesn't mean it anything. He thinks he feels that part of his brain turn to mush as the shadows, the void, whatever it is, whatever they are, seem to approach.

He read an article once, about some big fancy art project. They'd spent millions trying to create the darkest colour in the world, a new black. A colour with no shadows, a colour that doesn't capture highlights or reflections. He thinks hey might have covered a diamond in it, to create a beautiful juxtaposition of sorts, something so bright and beautiful smothered by the colour of true darkness. A colour that absorbs all light and traps it. He figures this- this thing right now in front of him, it's darker.

If he could scream, his vocal cords would be broken by now; he can't make a noise, so maybe they already are. _"i, erm- shadows."_ He thinks he feels is heat stop beating, he's cold enough that it really might have, all the blood drawn from his body like it's nothing.

It advances forward, the creature, monster, shadow, _thing_, and the entire wall where his door stood was entirely covered, gone, wiped from existence. _There's no escape now_, his mind quips,_ you're in too deep, wrapped in the shadows._

_"shadows?"_

His breathing speeds up and in response he tries to swallow as much air as he can, taking these deep gulping breaths that make him think about drowning, then it gets caught somewhere in his throat. He thinks he should be choking, gasping for air, instead it just stops, he just can't breathe. It's that simple, like it's fact. Something he can't challenge. He's going to die.

Abruptly, the shadows move closer, the entire room painted black, as though trapped in some bubble of ink. There's a weight on his chest and_ it's just sleep paralysis,_ he tries to remind himself. Then he can't see, at all, the darkness shrouds him and the weight just pushes. If this is death, he hopes it's over with quickly, because it's fucking awful. He's talked about how cool it would be to die on camera, at the hands of some demon, to become the evidence he's so desperately been searching for. Really though, he's always wanted to go peacefully,_ in my sleep, that's what I'd always said_, is this that?_ I take it back, this is horrific._

He thinks he can feel the intent of fingertips where the shadow pushes down on his chest. He thinks the darkness must be inside him now, tightening in his lungs, choking him from the inside. There are these vibrations that flow through him, like electricity. He figures it's a lot like what it must feel like to become possessed, as though something else is inside your body, pinning you down, all around, suffocating.

_"yeah."_

Then there's light because it's morning, he knows it is; he can see the sun filtering through in between the slats in his blinds. There's no weight, he can move, he can see, he can think properly again. Despite that, he can only think one thing:

"Shane."

He doesn't know what it means.

_______________________

Shane isn't there when he arrives at work, which is to be expected, because he's always five minutes early and Shane has been five minutes late a lot recently.

He'd got Starbucks on the way there, a black Americano for Shane and something iced for himself. As he puts Shane's cup down on his desk he's tempted to pick up the pair of scissors that idle a few desks over and create a little incision on his finger. Just enough to get a few drops into Shane's coffee, just to get a reaction, maybe if he reacts frantically he can accuse Shane of not drinking from the blood bags like he said he would yesterday. Maybe if he spits it out he can corner him, accuse him of lying about his blood tasting good, just to prove his thoughts from the day before weren't entirely irrational. If anything though, he's pretty sure that action in itself would prove how irrational he's being, had he really just considered drugging his friend with his own blood. _Oh, Ryan,_ a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Shane chides, _looks like you've made a real mess for yourself huh buddy?_ Christ.

He wonders if he's stepped over the thin line between crush and obsession. He wonders if there's a term for a crush that sounds less juvenile. _Obsession,_ in-his-head-Shane helpfully supplies,_ it's called an obsession- wait, aww are you obsessed with me Bergara? That's so cute!_ Jesus.

Instead of roofie-ing his co-worker first thing in the morning, he sits at his own desk, his leg bouncing with nerves in a way that makes him decide that caffeine may not be the best idea right now. He drinks it anyway.

He waits the same, long ten minutes he waits every morning, tapping buttons idly on his keyboard to look at least a little productive when Sara comes over to point out the fact she's been watching him press random keys, all while never actually signing into his computer for the past 6 minutes. He grunts in response, then she starts talking about something that catches his attention. Shane.

"-and I know he can get caught up in his work sometimes but it's meant to be his day with Obi and he isn't picking up the phone or answering my texts and I just- I don't want him to miss his day with our little orange son, you know?"

Ryan frowns, he knew their break up wasn't the cleanest, but they were getting on just fine as friends - they'd agreed to cat-share for god sake - so why would Shane be ignoring her? Plus, he knows Shane always complains about how quiet the apartment is without Obi around on Sara's days, so why wouldn't he answer?

"-earth to Ryan? Hellooo?"

"Huh?" He looks up at her from where he's sitting as she waves her hand in front of his face dramatically, a concerned frown on her features.

"I said will you talk to him for me when he comes in? I've got a meeting to get to." She points awkwardly toward a conference room on the other side of the bullpen, as though she has to provide some sort of evidence that she really has something to do. As if that's in any ay adequate evidence.

"Oh! Of course, I'll let him know, tha- that is if he hasn't been abducted by aliens or something." He grumbles slightly.

Sara snorts at that, "he's always late these days,-" the _'since I moved out and he has to look after himself'_ goes unspoken, but then Ryan starts spiralling about whether Sara knows, she must, right? "-but it's cute that you're worried Bergara."

_Yeah, I should be worried, five minutes late, he's always five minutes late, I know, It's been five minutes._

"I'm not worried," he lies with a shallow laugh, "just need him to pick out some questions for the postmortem before I have to send them off for review."

"You keep lying to yourself, Bergmeister!" She shouts as she walks clumsily backwards into the previously pointed out conference room, bumping into the door frame twice before she makes it in as she so cleverly decides shooting finger guns at Ryan is far more important than over navigation.

It takes 36 minutes before his resolve breaks and he picks up his phone, his computer is still locked and all the nails on his left hand are chewed down to the point where the nail meets skin and he can't bite anymore without ending up bleeding. He's almost tempted to, just to taste it, to see for himself how good he tastes. For some reason, he doesn't think he'd have the same experience as Shane.

The first call goes unanswered, as does the second, and the third, then he stops trying because the people in the desks around him are starting to look at him a little funny. Instead, he tries shooting the guy a text.

_Ryan: Hey man, any plans of showing up to work today? Your coffee is going cold_

He waits a grand total of five minutes before sending another.

_Ryan: Seriously are you okay?_

Quickly followed by...

_Ryan: I think Sara is worried, she said she tried calling...And I spent a whole five dollars on this coffee man_

Because apparently after everything he doesn't want to admit that he's the one that's worried.

Unsurprisingly, none of his messages gain a response, so he's left to do little more than wallow in his own morbid thoughts for the rest of the day. Who'd have thought reading about murders and disappearances for a living could lead to you feeling anxious when your vampire friend doesn't answer your calls? Not Ryan.

So wallow is exactly what he does, about all the terrible things that could've happened to the taller man. But he also wonders about what Shane had said to him yesterday, in a language he couldn't understand. He wonders about the fond look that was on his face as he said it. He wonders if he could learn a new language in a day, he thinks back to the five painstaking years he spent studying Spanish and decides probably not.

\-------------------------------------

When he wakes he thinks he might make it into work on time, he thinks that would catch Ryan off guard by bringing him coffee before even he shows up, he likes that idea. And everything goes well as he gets ready, he's got a full thirty minutes to spare when he steps out of the shower and hears his phone ringing from where he must have left it in the kitchen. He decides to let it ring out while he gets dressed because he's sure whoever it is can wait five minutes.

So he gets dressed, considers combing out his hair because it's far too long to leave this scruffy and he really needs to get it cut. So naturally, he decides he's not going to bother, then finally makes his way into the kitchen, tugging on a pair of socks that instantly gets ruined, because he steps straight into a pile of sticky, coagulated blood.

He's not sure why stepping in the puddle is what it takes for the scent to finally hit him, but it is, and the smell hits full force in all it's metallic, kind of plastic-y glory. "kurwa," _fuck_, he curses, like it's his natural tongue (because it is), like he isn't supposed to be a Chicago boy through and through.

He sighs because now he's thinking about blood, but one bag won't hurt, sure he can't afford to make it a habit, because one blood bag a day is hardly manageable. So he just won't make it a habit, that's fine.

He's aware his phone has started ringing again, but that's all background noise now. It doesn't matter, because he'll drink this one bag, find a clean pair of socks and still have time to answer his calls and get Ryan a coffee before showing up to work. He'll get him something iced, because the guy would drink iced latte's on Christmas instead of hot cocoa, like some kind of maniac.


	11. Ci, którzy żerują na krwi i anarchii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ci, którzy żerują na krwi i anarchii:  
(Polish;)  
\- men that thrive on blood and anarchy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my recent chapters have been short but I'll real busy and if I make them as long as I want them they'll never get published. 
> 
> Sorry! 
> 
> (Is anyone still even here reading this? Lmao)

He doesn't show up. Ryan doesn't have it in him to be surprised. It's not like he's got anyone to pretend for...other than every other person in the office that keeps shooting him weird looks. He's not being that fidgety, is he?

And look, sure, he'd have appreciated a text, but this is Shane he's talking about and what is Shane's purpose if not to inconvenience him at every turn?

To inconvenience him with all this worry and anger and shameful lust to bite his best friend. That one's the worst, and technically, it's probably the one he should be least worried about right now (it's also probably more his twisted subconscious he should be blaming for that, not Shane...though if Shane didn't bite him first he's sure his urge to sink his non-existent fangs into his friends neck wouldn't probably be as persistent. Though when he thinks about it, that was kind of on him too. Oh well). He should also stop thinking about it, right now, before it becomes a problem.

He almost just goes home, settles down with a tv dinner and some Netflix for the night, hell, maybe he could treat himself to chipotle on the way home. He thinks he probably deserves a treat. He's earnt it.

Instead of putting his own needs first, he decides he'll show up at Shane's door demanding answers again. He could be hurt after all, or sick, and what are friends for if not blatantly ignoring their friend's clear attempts to be alone?

No one ever really wants to be alone, Ryan thinks, at least he doesn't. He doesn't like feeling lonely, so he shouldn't risk Shane feeling that way.

About halfway through the journey he manages to admit to himself that while, _yes_, he really is concerned about Shane, it's definitely still his needs he's putting first. After all, what if what Shane needs is to be left alone right now? What if Shane likes being alone in that weird brooding vampire way? Ryan can be a lot to be around, Shane's admitted as much himself in the past, albeit in a fond way that suggested it didn't really bother him at all.

It's Ryan who needs answers. It's Ryan who's neurotic brain won't stop spinning webs until he finds out for himself what is going on. He tells himself he's selfish, to just turn the car around the next chance he gets. He doesn't.

He remembers how clammy and pale Shane seemed the other day when he assured Ryan that all he needed was a light snack and he figures that he really does have a genuine reason parking outside Shane's apartment building and bounding up the stairs - _mainly because the elevator is out of service again_ \- without so much as a warning text. Shane could always just, you know, not answer the door if he's avoiding him.

As if he'd just turn around and drive away.

It doesn't matter.

Shane answers the door.

_Well, that was easier than expected._

Wait, no.

Something is wrong.

Oh, yeah.

Shane's covered in blood.

_Of course_.

"Ry..."

_Ho-ly shit, Shane is covered in blood. Did he- who's blood is that!? What happened? _

_Holy shit. _

_Holy shit. _

_Holy shit._

"Ryan?"

Shane's stood there, in his doorway, trembling, blood on his hands and face. It smells, it's sharp, slightly artificial - _that's how people describe wine, not blood Ryan, you're starting to sound like a vampire_ \- kind of like burnt copper. That's a smell that sends him back, to a time when he didn't properly pay attention in his Physics class third period on a Friday and set fire to copper wire by turning the voltage too high. Simpler times. Times when he didn't show up to his best friends apartment to find him covered in some stranger's blood. Oh, the nostalgia. If only life were still so innocent. If only detentions and homework were still his biggest worry. 

"S-Shane? What the-?"

And now he's got this to deal with. Despite everything, he can't mangage to feel all that mad. Maybe it's the fear stopping him. 

Shane's hair is ruffled, he looks a little like he's been electrocuted, more than usual anyway, kinda like he's turned the voltage up too high in his own mind. _Brains aren't made of copper wire, that doesn't make sense._ Still, he can't be expected to come up with good analogies when his best friend, the current protagonist of all his deepest and darkest fantasies, is stood dripping with blood and sweat and looking like he's about to kill someone.

_He's probably already finished with that part._

"Ry, this isn't- I- I know this looks bad but-"

He's dressed as though he's about to head into the office, except his sleeves are rolled up haphazardly and his lightly coloured shirt is now predominantly crimson in colour. Mainly around the neck area, sticky and spreading down his chest. It's around his mouth too, drying and crumbling away where it had rolled down his cheeks, reminiscent the way he looked after pulling back from Ryan's wrist.

This is far too much blood to be as innocent as that. He also doubts Shane has many friends he can call for when he has a small hankering for blood. Even the thought makes him jealous, which is sick, really, he reprimands himself.

Ryan takes a step back, instinctively, as his fight or flight instinct kicks in and his brain screams _flight_ because he's never really been a fighting guy and this is a vampire in front of him.  
_A predator_, his mind supplies, _a leech_. But no, it's still Shane, _right?_

His eyes are still that soft amber you could get lost in, like staring at candle flame through a whiskey glass (which he'd never done, but he thinks the colour of the flame smothered by the cool liquor would mirror it quite nicely) even if his pupils are blown out unnaturally. There are definitely fangs, where his normal incisors should be, but having a sharper set of teeth doesn't make him a monster.

_The blood running down his chest does._

Ryan's never seen a lion after digging into it's ruthlessly caught prey before but he still finds the resemblance uncanny. He truly looks like a predator, all sharp edges. He thinks he might see a smugness in those eyes, an uncontrollable glimmer that any well-fed predator is sure to have. But no, he's imagining it. There's still something so soft in him, something so Shane that Ryan can't help the concern for his best friend that surges through him. He also can't help the way that seeing Shane covered in blood like that leads to the blood in _his_ body flooding to inappropriate places. That's secondary though, and probably just a side effect of his shock, that can happen right? Fear boners? Well, he's not quite there yet, and he thinks Shane revealing a dead body to him will quickly shut that problem down. 

It's a little stereotypical, the way he imagines it. A young woman, spread across Shane's bed, blood mottling the sheets and her pristine white dress - a dress from another era, a dress that looks far too innocent, a little out of place, because vampires are drawn to purity right? Isn't that something Shane said? He's aware the colour or someones dress doesn't dictate the sanctity of their soul, but he's unaware how else to depict such purity, in his mind's eye. He can almost imagine the way her golden blonde locks lay lat against the pillow, deflated. The way her own blood stains her pale, blemish-free skin. It's eerie, how easy such a thing is to imagine, he stops, or tries to, because it's repulsing. Plus, there's no way he can run away while he's stuck in his head. Was that what he was doing? He takes another step back, because he thinks so.

"Ry wait please don't-" he sticks out his hand, then pulls it back; it's an aborted movement, an attempt to reach out that's stopped when Ryan flinches in response, "-don't be afraid, I- just-" he sticks his head out the doorway far enough to glance down the empty hallways, "-come inside, please? I can explain, I swear."

\------------_this morning_\--------------

He rips open a blood bag, just one, true to his word and pours it into a glass, because he's not an animal - well, not _always_.

He drinks the blood, the sharp pinch of his fangs extending, causing dual sensations in his mouth that do nothing to alarm him, that's natural. What does alarm him, is how quickly he finishes the glass, feeling like he hadn't drunk anything at all.

Now the smell is sharper in the air, that bag must've been from a different donor to the blood now soaking through his sock, because it smells a lot nuttier, kind of musky. It's strange, it didn't taste all that nutty, it didn't taste all that much of anything if he thinks about it. That can happen, when he drinks too fast, it still feels good, but it's like it bypasses his taste buds, or his brain doesn't work quick enough to recognise what he's tasting. Either or. It doesn't matter which, only that it just won't do. He needs to taste it, to savour it to feel truly satisfied. He's kind of kidding himself there, because what kind of vampire comes up satisfied after drinking from a single blood bag? Certainly not this one. He's far too old for that. 

One more bag. That seems like the natural solution. Just a little more slowly this time. He'll really savour it. Make it last.

That's a lie, he knows it is, because he doesn't bother with the glass this time, his fangs deep into the pressed plastic before he can even process what's happening. His nostrils flare as a new scent tinges the air, he likes this one. He likes this one a lot more. He can't identify exactly why until it's too late.

If he had to pinpoint a moment where it all went downhill, retrospectively, he'd argue that he had a grip on things 'til right there. 

He closes his eyes as he drinks, trying to bury himself into the sensation, to make this one count, to make it mean something. He thinks it's working at first, because he can no longer hear the laboured dripping from his leaky kitchen tap, or the dull buzzing from his refrigerator.

The thing is, those sounds may disappear, but others replace them. Sounds that don't fit, sounds he can't place. But then he can.

_Ah. Chloera. Shit_.

He can't remember the last time this happened. The last time he lost himself mid-feed.

There's music playing that's distinctly 40s, New Orleans in the 40s. Blues, not jazz, he always preferred blues, it was new back then, exciting, which is ironic really, but whatever. It's distorted, like he's listening to it through a wall, like it's in another room. Like he's sat in a private room, just offset from the main bar, like there's a woman, easy flowing dress, straddling his thighs. The room would be a little old-timey, brown walls with warm red furnishings, wooden flooring, a large bed made the central attraction, with silk black sheets. 

He realises belatedly, that this is bad. Really fucking bad, but he's lost in it, the memory. It was just after he'd left Emery, in England. He'd made himself afresh start in a new country, a new state. It didn't go exactly how he'd planned it.

_The French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana, 1944._ The place to be. All the hip vampires are making names for themselves there. _Hip_? _Jesus_.

He remembers the weight of the too-wide slacks on his legs, the heat of the fully buttoned dress shirt tucked into them, he was far more vain back then. You had to be, in a city like that, care about your looks. The suit wasn't particularly expensive, it was more about the way you wore it, the way you walked around it in. Especially being Polish, that was the year he'd committed to really losing the accent, to stop using the language. It didn't stop the slurs, the mutters and half yells of_ "polack"_ he'd get for even walking down the street. He'd wondered if he'd got the same response if he'd committed to the Russian accent, or the British one, or any other accent he'd came across on his travels. He thinks probably, only with different slurs. For how diverse New Orleans boasted to be, there was still one hell of a racial divide. A curse of the times, he thinks.

Things weren't always so accepting. He wonders if there will ever be a time when the world fully accepts him, he doubts it. Snickers at the thought. Or he would, but no, he's a little distracted right now.

Maybe that was why he was so angry all the time, back then. So aggressive, as though he needed to prove something to himself, assert himself as someone who didn't care what the world thought. He'd take what he wanted, and he'd take it fighting.

She was pretty, flowy blonde hair, curled to just above her shoulders - a staple of the period. It was summer so the dress she was wearing was sleeveless, covering up to her calves. It was flowy white, it didn't fit her quite right and it was most certainly not made from silk - he was more judgey back then, too, _apparently_. She looked entirely out of place in such a prestigious bar, such a renowned brothel. Maybe that's why she did so well there.

She looked far too innocent. Maybe that only spurred him on back then.

It had, if the last twelve girls were anything to go by.

The more innocent, the more pure, the better they'd taste. It was a rule he lived by. A fact he'd tried to forget when he got clean - well, stopped drinking enough to kill back in 1821 - and he'd been doing so well. _Cięzko się pożbyć starych nawkyków_, he'd thought, shrugging off the whole affair, _old habits die hard._ The victims of this certain habit of his also seemed to die quite hard, some of them loved to struggle. That made him enjoy it more.

It always went the same way, they'd always seal their own fate when they'd lead him to a back room. Sometimes he'd let things ride out a little, let the girls have a little fun before he sank his fangs into their neck. Was it really fun for them, the service they were providing? Or did they do it simply out of necessity? Maybe they needed the money, though it didn't pay much. He didn't care, back then, they wouldn't live long enough for it to matter.

He liked them unsuspecting, at least at first, and it was the least he could do, right? Give them a little pleasure to go along with the pain. Still. He liked it when they had the gall to fight back. Kicked. Screamed. Gave him an excuse to sink his fangs deeper, to tear straight through the main artery. After all, he always loved making a mess. It was an art form. Thighs quickly became his favourite drinking spot, you could make a real mess sinking your fangs into one of those. It was a craft he was rather proud of, even if it gave him a rather awful reputation. There's was something thrilling though, about being a wanted man, detectives became the next meat on the menu. Just for the thrill of it. Just because he could. The hunter becomes the hunted, and all that. A classic tale of cat and mouse. 

Distantly, he feels the sensation of his fangs extending further, sinking deeper into the cool warmth of blood, that's strange. He's pretty sure the blood bag should be empty by now. Though, he can't bring himself out of the fantasy, can't pull his eyes away from the milling pedestrians as they cobble down the pavement, unsuspecting as he leaves another body behind. The skies were cloudy, which he hated, because he loved seeing the stars. There weren't many people out on the streets that night and well, there was a new murderer in town, who could blame them?

He'd fallen off the wagon, after Emery, it all happened so fast. There was so much booze, so much music, and sex. How could he not lose control? He wasn't a saint. What, was he supposed to abstain? Sometimes he found himself wondering if the scene of his crimes, brothels, was some kind of keening for Emery. Their bond wasn't used to being stretched so far, and the younger vampire was always a fan of ladies of the night. A tribute to his Childe then, a calling maybe. Either way, after a few years Emery came running.

He's not proud of it, sure he can still appreciate the work he'd put into the presentation of some of the bodies, in a way that kind of makes him heave - it's a mutated appreciation, then. Appreciation none the less.

He'd ended up putting sickening care into the whole thing, making sure the placement was just right. The kill mattered, he hates to admit to himself that it wasn't entirely just because of the blood. It'd be different if it was purely instinct, simply animalistic urges. He was methodical. It was strangely human, really. His behaviour was reminiscent of that of the serial killers Ryan studies in all his cold cases.

But things were different back then, he was different back then. It was a lifetime ago, and he's better now, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't lose control. He wouldn't black out from blood lust, he wouldn't lose time, he wouldn't kill, he wouldn't enjoy it.

He tells himself that, as he takes in the scene around him. Takes in all the drained blood bags scattered around the floor and countertops. Takes in the way his refrigerator door is off its hinges, bloody handprints marking the pristine white. Takes in the sensation of blood on his face, his jaw, his neck, looks down to see the way it makes his shirt cling to his skin.

He tells himself that as he hears a knock at the door and immediately checks his phone for the time, realising it's 6:42 pm and he definitely isn't on time for work anymore.

Ryan freaks, which is to be expected really, when he answers the door. He tries to reassure him, but he's got that glassy faraway look in his eye and that rapid pounding of his heart that means Shane won't be able to get through to him.

He feels like he's been gutted as he takes in that look, does Ryan really think he'd...? Well, he supposes he can't be_ too offended_, given the sensory overload he'd just found himself lost in. That doesn't make it sting any less, because it's _that look._

He knows if he doesn't do something Ryan will definitely run and he'll lose the only chance to explain he's going to get, so he reaches out, makes to drag Ryan in, but then. Does he really want Ryan to see all of his? To see how out of control he's gotten? Will Ryan trust him enough to be around him after seeing this? Does he trust himself enough to let Ryan in?

Ryan flinches. He pulls back.

Now he doesn't think himself to be a religious man, not in the slightest, at least not anymore. That doesn't stop the way he tilts his head to the ceiling as he prays, _Proszę, Ojcze, błagam cię, litości. Please, father, I beg you, have mercy. _He thinks it's hopeless. If there was a God, it wouldn't show kindness to a creature like him. 

Life born through death, he's an _abomination_. God would think as such. Surely so does Ryan.


	12. Krew wampira nie pachie jak żadna inna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krew wampira nie pachie jak żadna inna:  
(Polish;)  
\- a vampire's blood smells like no other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I guess this could be considered self-harm, there are also mentions of excessive blood loss. (i think that's it? Just read with caution if you're triggered by those kinda things)
> 
> The angst fuels me.

All things considered, Ryan copes quite well. Sure, he shrieks a little, buries his head in his hands, flinches every time Shane approaches him for about an hour. But he's still there, he's not running, and he believes Shane when he tells him it's just the bags. When Ryan insists on checking Shane's bed for corpses he goes to protest (okay so maybe he doesn't believe him completely) but instead he just opens his mouth, closes it again like a goldfish, then shrugs. There's nothing in there Ryan hadn't already seen. Because Ryan's been sleeping in there, like that's normal, like that's just what pals do. Like Ryan wouldn't have normally pulled out the 'no homo' card by now.

So, all in all, things don't turn out awful, until Ryan insists they start cleaning up the kitchen and Shane has to look at the mess he's made. He'd already washed himself clean of blood, put on a new shirt, made himself a little more presentable. That was one hurdle, this was another. He used to like looking at his mess, seeing it in newspapers, he'd kept some of the clippings. When had things changed? There's this twisted thought flashing through him that he isn't disgusted because his kitchen is covered in blood but he's disgusted because it isn't good enough. Because there's no body accompanying it. He doesn't like that thought. He ignores it.

It's then when he picks up a blood bag and stains his fingertips crimson that he can't contain it. They'd both been precariously edging around the fact that Shane had been trembling and sweating profusely for the last hour, despite his earlier shower, and he couldn't avoid it anymore. Things aren't okay. They're stood there cleaning like Shane just spilt some popcorn. 

He'd tried to resist it, to pretend the nagging wasn't there, oh but it was. It was fucking there. He needed more. He wasn't full, not even close. That's not even physically fucking possible.

_He needed more._

"Ryan."

He glances up, trembling hand dropping the empty bag back on the floor as he watches Ryan clean the countertops. He doesn't respond, doesn't look up, he just keeps scrubbing. It's clear he hears him from the way his eyebrows furrow as he concentrates on trying not to hear him.

"Ryan, man we- I- Jesus can you stop!? The blood is gone! That corner has been clean for the last ten minutes!" He snaps, doesn't mean to. Emotions are harder to control like this, you can't blame him. Ryan probably will. Maybe he should blame him. He is out of control after all. He is a monster. There's no one else to blame for any of this.

Ryan flinches, stops scrubbing, doesn't turn to face him.

Shane sighs, runs his hand down his face in irritation. It's not easy, not with the way it's shaking. It reminds him how much he takes for granted, even little ticks like rubbing his face when he's stressed. Things that are automatic, that he doesn't even register anymore.

"Ryan- Ry, you should just leave." He hedges, trying to sound softer, it takes skill. It's fake. He wants to scream, he doesn't yell a lot. He wants to lose it.

That makes Ryan turn, makes him snap back, "what!?" He looks affronted, like he's raring up for a fight. Shane doesn't want a fight, that's the worst possible outcome. He'll lose control if he gets angry. He's already barely holding on. He was trying to be polite, why's Ryan so angry? That's a stupid question, and Shane really wants a fight, a struggle, an excuse to-

"I- I need more Ry, I can't stop- I won't be able to stop- you need to leave." He's shaking, can't meet Ryan's eyes, not now. He's admitting it, to Ryan. Admitting that he's an animal, a predator, a leech. If Ryan doesn't leave he needs to get out himself, and soon.

He wants to think he's being dramatic, that his body is just being a bitch, that he'll be fine if he just distracts himself. Distractions never work. He _needs_.

"What do you mean you can't stop Shane, I thought you could go weeks without feeding- I mean what, all of a sudden you've got some unexplainable blood lust? I don't know a lot about this whole vampire stuff but that doesn't seem right. You-"

And _oh, really?_ The nerve on this guy,_ thinks he knows more about vampire behaviour than the actual fucking vampire stood in front of him? _He knows that's this irrational anger talking, but it's irrational, so it's not like he can control it. Even if all he really wants is Ryan to pull him into a damn hug and tell him everything is going to be alright. _As if you could hug him and not end up tearing into his throat. Idiot. _His mind jabs. His mind is an asshole sometimes. 

"Jesus, Ryan! I'm not some theory, there's no mystery to solve," Shane huffs, "can you not just listen for once? Just leave, fucking leave, I need you to go. I want you to go!" He flings his arm out dramatically toward the kitchen door to make his point. He thinks about approaching Ryan, pushing him out, but he's just stopped flinching at his every movement. He doesn't think he could get that close to Ryan without snapping anyway. That's an issue because he's between Ryan and the door. _I really don't want him to go. _

"I'm not- fuck, Shane, I'm not just going to leave you here! Anything could happen, you could-"

"I could what Ryan? I could kill someone? That's what you're expecting, isn't it? Big bad Shane has no self-control, right? He's just some fucking monster? What does that make you, my supernatural babysitter?" He scoffs, wants to calm down, he won't, only half of him really wants to, "Maybe you're right! Maybe I'm scared It'll be you I kill if you don't just do what you're told and get out." His tremors are getting sharper, more ragged as his breathing picks up and he realises at the warm wetness running down his face that he's crying. _How did that happen?_

Ryan doesn't look scared, or angry, he looks determined. He looks the way he does when he's trying to defend a noise they pulled out of the spirit box to Shane in the sound booth. The way he looks when he's negotiating over the phone to get locations confirmed for unsolved. He looks like he'll do whatever the fuck it takes to get what he wants. That scares the shit out of Shane because usually when he has that look their wants don't exactly match up.

"Shane- man, we'll figure this out, I don't want to leave you alone because I'm worried about you, not about what you'll do when I'm gone. I want to help." He sounds sincere, Shane can see him wanting to edge closer. _Let him, that'll !ake it easier when we-_

Shane scoffs, shaking his head.

_Help?_ God does he need it, but Ryan? No, he can't help. He's part of the problem, him and his fucking blood. He just always smells like that. It's irresistible, can't he see that?

"Shane-" He does take a step forward now, edging along, back against the counter.

"There's no figuring this out Ry, I wish there was but I'm," he gestures to himself, "there's no saving this."

Ryan sighs, looks away, looks like he's going to cry, looks how Shane feels. "That doesn't mean I won't try." He retorts and Shane thinks, _I fucking know, you try so hard and I love you for it but you need to stop trying for me._ He goes to vocalise it in not so many words when Ryan moves, makes for the other side of the counter. The side he'd been edging toward.

"What are you-" 

Ryan practically leaps for the knife block, tugs one out, knocking it over and causing knives to clatter across the counter in the process, one hitting the still bloodied floor.

"Jesus Ry!" Shane growls (yes, _growls_), before jumping forward, grabbing Ryan's arm at inhuman speeds, "what the fuck?"

The glare he gets back is painful and when Ryan tugs his own arm back Shane lets go. It's a moment of weakness, maybe he just wants to stop Ryan looking at him like that, like he's just killed a damn cat. Ryan takes a few steps back after that, putting some distance between them, Shane lets him. It's not like he's going to just-

Oh but of course he would, because he'd done it before. Sure Shane was unconscious that time, but he'd done it, he must have, Shane remembers seeing the knife. And Shane's right, he would, because he does.

From the other side of the room Ryan steels himself, brings the knife to his wrist and he thinks he hears something similar to_ 'stop'_ but he's not listening. It was easier last time, somehow, maybe it was because he convinced himself he was saving Shane's life last time. Maybe hearing Shane trying to stop him, like it's Shane's wrists he's slitting makes things a little harder, but he manages.

It's not the knife he would've gone for if he had the time to choose, it's serrated, so when it makes contact with his skin it doesn't cut, it tears. It's a whole lot more painful than the last time too. He has to steady himself first, makes Shane back off, he's got control now, he's the man with the knife. He almost backs out when he first feels the indent of each tooth of the blade on his skin, but he needs to do this, he is doing this for Shane. So he cuts, saws through skin, it's deeper than he'd want and when Shane advances to take the knife from him he throws it up in defence so he can reach for the glass that's still sat on the island. He knows Shane wouldn't drink from his wrist right now, he's too scared of what he'll do, so he'll compromise.

Shane flinches when Ryan points the knife toward him, he shouldn't, why would he hesitate? It can't kill him, sure it would fucking hurt but it wouldn't do much damage, they both know that. Still, he freezes, gives Ryan the chance to hover his wrist above a glass. The glass he'd started drinking from that morning.

It's bleeding a lot, _holy fuck,_ that's dangerously deep. The smell hits him all at once, it kinda feels like being hit with a baseball bat in the lungs, except someone's covered the baseball bat in something that smells really good. Like chocolate and roses. That's what it takes to snap him out of whatever spell he's under as he lunges forward, grabs Ryan's wrist and pulls it forcibly toward him. He knows his fangs are out, knows his eyes are red and considers biting, but he maintains some control and he licks across the wound. The blood that gets in his mouth as he does is unavoidable and he can't help but swallow. He thinks he won't be able to pull back, feels the sensation of the tips of his fangs against skin. Breathes and pauses for a moment. Then he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth, gasping, panting for air like he'd just ran a marathon, he staggers backward, "Ry, " he rasps, "are you- you fucking _idiot!_ Why-"

He looks up, sees the pint glass full of blood on the counter and it hits him, _Ryan's lot a pint of blood, holy shit_, then he looks at the blood trailed from the corner Ryan was stood in, the blood dripping down his arm and thinks _two pints_. He tries to remember all he knows about blood loss, which is much least than he'd like to admit. He figures Ryan has probably lost about a litre, which is class ii. That's bad. Not fatal but bad.

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by a _thud_ and looks over to find Ryan on his knees, a distant look in his eye, the knife on the floor beside him.

_Hypovolemic shock_. His brain supplies as he takes in Ryan's pale pallor and sweat-soaked skin. _Fuck fuck fuck. Niech to szlag trafi, damn it!_

"Hey, Ry- Ryan look at me huh?" He drops to his knees beside Ryan, places his hands on his shoulders. "Ry we need to- we should get you to a hospital yeah buddy?" He knows he can lift Ryan to the car, but with him in this state, it'll be a struggle.

Ryan doesn't look like he's capable of anything, least of all responding verbally but Shane hears him cough out a short, _"no."_

"No?" He responds, a confused look on his face, _maybe an ambulance then_, but as he looks around at all the blood in the room that isn't Ryan's he doesn't think that's possible.

" 's not- you healed t-the wound Shane," Ryan responds, still shaking, shirt clinging to his body with sweat. Hia voice is slurred, stammered, like he's been drinking all night.

Oh _shit, fuck, he's right._ But Ryan needs help, serious medical help or- well, there's the other option. The stupid, irrational option. But he can't leave Ryan like this, his symptoms could get worse, he could pass out and if he passes out while in shock he could- _fuck_. He doesn't have a choice.

"Shit, shit Ryan okay I need- I'm gonna- look at me man, can you do that? I need to bite my wrist and when I do I need you to drink okay?"

"You- what!?" Ryan responds, dazed, words slightly slurred. Still, Shane doesn't miss the way his eyes widen.

"I can pour it into a glass if you want but I- I need to know, we need to do this quickly."

Ryan looks up, nods his head shakily, " 's fine" and Shane thinks that's probably the only response he's going to get so he nods back and sinks his fangs into his own wrist.

He tenses his hand into a fist, watching the lazy dropping of blood turn into a steady drizzle before he reaches his wrist out in front of Ryan's face.

\-------------------------

He groans, feeling his chest constrict, his throat close up as Shane backs away, he's vaguely aware that he's shaking like Shane was, aware that there's dizziness washing over him but his brain seems to lag as he drops to his knees. The knife clatters on the floor beside him and he thinks Shane's speaking but it's like there's a barrier between himself and his voice.

He wants to speak, but his chest is tightening and he can't get a hold of his breathing and then Shane is in front of him, on his knees. He wants to point to the still full glass, to scream at Shane to drink so at least one of them is doing okay but Shane's talking to him, something about hospitals and he sputters out a _"no"_ because that's not possible. For one, he doesn't think he can move and two, where did all the blood go? He doesn't have a wound, anything to prove he's bled out at all apart from the stained skin on his arm. He thinks he says as much because Shane seems to catch on, then he's suggesting something else_ wait, " you- what!?_"

There must be more to the interaction but then Shane's wrist is in front of him and nothing else matters because holy shit, he'd been pining for this. He finally gets a taste, finally gets to know what it'll feel like to have Shane's blood flowing down his throat. The smell hits. _Whoa_. _That's- _It smells like Shane, like leather bound books, like coffee, kind of like apples, like metal and sugar. Like everything, like history.

He leans forward, grasps Shane's arm with his hand, sways a little but feels Shane's free hand catch his shoulder to steady him. Somewhere he hears,_ "it's okay, just drink,"_ in a voice that sounds too soft for a frantic Shane but he obeys either way.

It's both exactly what he expected and nothing like it at all, he bites down to anchor his mouth over the wound and he feels Shane twitch beneath him. He runs his tongue over the wound, just to feel Shane flinch again before he takes his first mouthful. It tastes. Holy shit, _it tastes_. It tastes like Shane, that's all he can think, _Shane_. There's something woody in it, something thick and rich and he can't stop, doesn't want to. He swallows and sucks, trying to draw out as much as he can, coax it into his mouth and he can feel Shane trembling, hear the way his breath hitches. It tastes like the best meal he's ever eaten, it tastes like joy, like every positive emotion he's ever felt and he thinks maybe that's the shock talking but either way it's good.

Then he hears a breathless, croaky_ "Ry, "_ and knows to pull back, even if he really doesn't want to.

He leans back, catches his breath before looking at Shane. Shane with his pupils blown out in the way they get just before he loses control, dilating similar to that of a cat's. Shane with his sweaty, soft skin and his perfect blood. Shane who's looking at him like he's everything and nothing. Shane who's not saying a damn thing and, _did this mean something for him? _Is giving away blood important to vampires? Or does he think Ryan is insane, dangerous for how much he drank because he's human and he was revelling in drinking his best friends blood?

Instead of maintaining eye contact Ryan lets his eyes roam the kitchen where they catch on the briefly forgotten pint glass of blood. Because that's somehow something you just forget about apparently.

He sighs, looks back to Shane and mutters, "you should probably drink that man- hey, look at us, just two ghoul boys sharing blood on your kitchen floor."

There's something in that which leads to Shane inhaling sharply before looking away, maybe he forgot the glass was there too. He nods, stands, ignoring the way his knees crackle and pop like cereal as he eyes the glass, avoids looking at Ryan like he wasn't just staring at him.

\------------------------- 

Shane grunts, stands, _ah, that probably shouldn't have happened._ He should've just got a glass like Ryan did, he should've done anything to avoid that because now he's feeling too much. Now he never wants Ryan's mouth to leave his skin. Now he wants to kiss his blood out of Ryan's mouth. 

Instead, because that might be a step too far, he picks up the glass and stares down at the blood. He doesn't need to drink as badly anymore, which is stupid because if anything he needs more blood in him now. But he doesn't even really feel hungry, he feels euphoric.

Blood sharing, it's well, not necessarily as intimate as the internet depicts but it's intimate in a different kind of way. It's a show of trust, of love and respect and he knows Ryan can't know that but Ryan can sure as hell tell he's acting weirdly.

Being drank from isn't the same as it is for a human, it feels _good_. And sure, it can feel good for a human too if you do it right, it can feel great if you do it right. This though? This isn't even comprehensible to the human mind. It's certainly nothing Shane felt in his human life. Look sure, he could probably get off to just this feeling but not in the crass, 'getting bit is going to make you jizz in your pants like a teenager' kind of way all those smutty vampire stories suggest. It's more innocent than that, it really is, he swears.

Either way, he needs to do something before Ryan calls him out on his weirdness so he takes a deep breath before bringing the glass to his lips. It's great, it tastes amazing, as he expects it to. Still, it doesn't compare to the way Ryan's teeth pressed against his skin, urging more blood into his mouth, like he wanted it, like he was enjoying it. _God_, he hopes Ryan enjoyed it too or that makes this weird right?

Regardless, he drinks, feels his fangs extend and his head spin. When he finishes the glass he feels really full, which is something he should be questioning, but he doesn't have it in him. Instead, he turns to Ryan who, to his surprise, is just kneeling on the ground staring up at him. Well, that's something he'll never unsee, Ryan on his knees in front of him with an expectant look in his eye.

He doesn't make a remark. He's sure he's more likely to make Ryan uncomfortable than make him laugh if he jokes about it. So he offers up his hand and pulls Ryan up when he grabs his arm. It's already healed, his wrist, but it still makes him shiver when Ryan's hand brushes past where his mouth had been minutes before.

"You alright bud?" He asks as he helps Ryan stand, watches him brush himself off.

Ryan looks up at that, eyes widening like he's been caught out on something, like a deer in headlights when he sputters out, "yeah- yeah I'm fine, more than fine- I mean-"

Shane cuts him off with a snort, "not what you expected huh?" And Ryan - _is he blushing?_ \- looks down, rubbing his arm as he shakes his head.

"It was- I-"

Shane seems to understand that he's just going to ramble, flop like a fish out of water so rather he takes a step closer, places a comforting hand on his arm. "Man, I know it's weird- it's a lot, you don't have to explain that to me, you should probably just- you still need to rest, let's just go to bed yeah?"

Ryan doesn't comment on how domestic that sounded, doesn't note that he didn't even bother to suggest sleeping on the couch. As he nods and looks up to meet Shane's eye he doesn't think he needs to because Shane looks back at him with a gaze that says _'i want to be domestic with you,'_ He's pretty sure it's just because they are stood together and he's still kind of out of it from the blood loss, that Shane's just looking at him like _'you're my best friend and I'm concerned about you'_ not like, _'move in, let's get married!' _but he can't help but feel like they've shared something forbidden tonight.

Maybe that look is what gives him the courage to mumble, "you taste like a lot too," as he falls asleep facing Shane's back that night. Maybe that's what gives him the strength to mutter after it, "and I never want to stop tasting you." It doesn't exactly express his feelings right but he's pretty sure Shane is already knocked out, so it's not like it matters. He still doesn't gather up the nerve to tell him, _'I think I'm in love with you' _but that's fine, it's probably not the right time anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood kink? I hardly know her. 
> 
> Fun fact: at the rate of haemorrhaging Ryan would've been dead in under 8 minutes, presuming he hit the main artery. Ryan was experiencing a class 2 haemorrhage in which you lose roughly 30% of the blood in the body. Most people die after surpassing 40%. I had to learn that to write this so now so do you, you're welcome.


	13. jedną kosmaena porcja naleśników

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i jedną obrzydliwą porcję naleśników:  
(Polish;)  
\- and one terrible batch of pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but I just wanted some soft fluffy action before it gets dramatic ;)

He wakes with one long vampire wrapped neatly around him, chin rested on the top of his head. There's one arm loosely around his waist and the other pinned beneath his dead weight. He's crumpled into Shane's chest, arms trapped between them and he's not entirely sure how to get out of the cage of limbs without waking Shane up.

There's an attempt to stretch his legs but Shane's slender ones have those locked in too. That makes everything a little more difficult. He wonders at what point in the night this happened, he wonders if Shane has any idea how close they are right now. He kind of hopes he does, he kind of hopes he likes it. That's wishful thinking if he's ever heard it.

With a sigh, he tries to pull back.

He doesn't want to, not entirely, but he's far too hot wrapped in Shane and the blankets and he just needs to catch his breath. He notes the relaxed rhythm of Shane's breathing he's pretty sure he can do so without waking him up. But then he pulls back far enough to see Shane's face and sees the frown burrowed into it, eyebrows set firm over closed eyes. He doesn't look happy, or comfortable.

He figures it's probably just another one of those nightmares Shane's been getting and goes to wake him up, but as he pulls back an inch further the loose grip Shane had on his waist turned into a tighter one. He thinks he hears him mumble something akin to_ 'don't go' _in his sleep and he knows Shane isn't really conscious of what he's doing but hell, how can he say no to that? He sounds so desperate and scared and Ryan's pretty sure he's never going to move again, that he'll happily die cocooned in Shane's arms if he doesn't have to hear his voice sounding that fragile again.

Ryan will admit he's not entirely sure he heard what he thinks he did, but it's an excuse, an excuse to hold on to this nugget of intimacy a little longer and he considers that he might need it now. He figures that these crossed boundaries they allow themselves are the only thing that really keeps him going, they are the only thing he really looks forward too. He reckons he could live off them, these shared moments. He concludes that he'd die without them. _Oh well, I guess I'm stuck then. Wouldn't want to drop dead on Shane's bedroom floor._

That's a little dramatic though, he knows this. He's got a lot to look forward to, he's got a good life, he's happy. He takes it for granted really, the fact that he gets paid to road trip around America with his best friend and a crew he thinks of like family. That ends up being the thing that reminds him that he really should be getting up because it's a workday and they are travelling for a location tomorrow. He'd almost forgotten. It's crazy how fast time flies when your best friend reveals his true identity.

Though now he really thinks about it Shane hasn't done that at all, has he? He doesn't even know what his name was back then. He doesn't know if he wants that knowledge, to hear about all Shane's past lives. He's not sure he'd like the man Shane was before, but that's stupid, he was probably always soft and funny and really damn cuddly. He can't imagine him any other way.

He'll ask, at some point then. For now, he really should be getting up. 

He doesn't do that. Instead, he burrows back into Shane's chest, tilting his head to watch as he traces his fingers along Shane's side, because five more minutes won't hurt and he thinks Shane needs him here. There's still a shirt between their skin but there's something soothing about it, something electric that makes him trace circles as softly as he can and hope to God that he's doing something right to smooth out the frown on Shane's face. He doses as he does this, slips in and out of consciousness but his hand never stops tracing those patterns, swirls and hearts and squares, little ghosts against the taller man's ribs. It's automatic, doesn't even realise he's doing it until he hears a soft groan fall from Shane's lips, feels the stretching of his muscles beneath his hand.

Then he feels Shane freeze as he registers what's happening, feels him look down and huff a breath into his hair, "_Ryan?_" His voice is gruff, throat too dry which means the attempt at what would have been a high-pitched questioning, ridicule maybe comes out a little broken.

He doesn't sound disgusted, a little confused, maybe dazed, sleep stricken, that's good, right? He's not pushing Ryan away? Still, Ryan lets his hand retreat as he looks up at Shane with a soft smile, "mornin',"

Shane makes an unintelligible grunt in response, "I didn't say stop," he seems to think for a second after that, his brain lagging, "I would like my arm back though," he tenses the arm under Ryan to make his point and Ryan holds back a laugh of surprise in response, choosing not to move as he goes back to drawing patterns on Shane's clothed skin.

" 's good," Shane mumbles quietly, giving the arm under Ryan one last weak tug and Ryan thinks he might be falling back to sleep but then he mutters, "gonna be late for work though."

Ryan sighs at that, retracting his hand again and arching his back so Shane can pull his arm back, he does.

He lays on his back, eyeing the ceiling as he mutters, "we could always not show up today."

He hears Shane scoff, even as the taller man rolls onto his stomach to nuzzle into his pillow, "not show up? That doesn't sound like you Ry, I think you might still be in shock." It's muffled from where Shane has half his face buried into his pillow but Ryan catches it well enough.

"It's not like we are needed there, I've already sorted out all the preparations." He thinks aloud, it's true, well, the crew looked into most of it. The point is, it's done. Sorted. Ready. There's nothing for them to worry about. They should be allowed to relax.

"Preparations?" He hears a shuffle, thinks Shane is lifting his head from the pillow to look at him. He doesn't turn to look, he doesn't need to. He can picture the confused look on Shane's face perfectly. _He forgot. Again. Of course, he did. _

"Yeah, for when we go on location tomorrow," Ryan replies.

"When we what!?" Shane suddenly sounds awake, shooting up into a sitting position so he can see Ryan properly, to get a grasp on what he's just been told. Siting up so fast wasn't a good idea if the way he sways and grabs onto the bed for stability is anything to go by. Ryan looks at him now, at the way his hair sticks up in a way that certainly must be defying gravity, the way his eyes still look slightly glazed with sleep despite how widely they shot open.

"Yeah Shane, we've been planning it for weeks, in New Orleans- wait, don't tell me you forgot-"

Shane's face drops. _Oh._

_Fuck._

"-Shane?"

"New Orleans?"

"That's what I said, man, are you okay?"

"Where's- what location?"

"It's a surprise, we've been over this, like just last week. I knew you loved the voodoo episode so I thought we'd go back, find something new."

"Well colour me surprised _Ryan._"

Ryan bites back the urge to comment on the fact that he doesn't think he's heard anyone other than his Abuelita say _"colour me surprised"_ unironically. He also doesn't comment on how the way he says Ryan's name like that sometimes, with that certain intonation makes his head spin, even if he's trying to sound frustrated. It's one of the many quirks about Shane that makes him so loveable, his phrasing, the weird but intentional stress he puts on certain words that's distinctly him. 

\---------------------

They do end up getting up, but not to go into work. They call in sick and Shane thinks he'll add it to the list of bad habits he's been picking up on since this whole vampire thing blew up with Ryan. He'll let this one slip, especially when Ryan suggests they go to IHOP for breakfast. 

It's not his favourite place to eat out by a long shot, but it's the way Ryan says it, all shy like. As if he's a nerd asking the pretty girl to prom. It makes him grin, like he's the nerd who won the prom queen's heart. Ryan doesn't say it's a date, he's not sure it's meant to be, but it gives him butterflies all the same. He's not sure when it happened, this change between them, he's not sure when it became so natural that the idea of a date doesn't freak him out. If he puts on his best shirt, the pretty pink one he knows he looks good in for what could- should just be a casual breakfast with Ryan, well, that's his business. (But he does, and he thinks he looks really damn good.)

And look, if his recent nightmares are the omens he thinks they are about this mysterious location - not that he believes in omens, believe me, he hates the idea - then he'll allow himself such niceties while he can.

New Orleans of all places, it can't just be a coincidence, _can it?_ Sure, he enjoyed it the last time, but the last time he was on the other side of the city from where- _well_. He won't get into that right now. 

They talk for a while, Ryan trying to pry about vampires while Shane tries to pry about the new location and they both neglect their sup-par pancakes. Seriously, IHOP? Why did he think that was a good idea again?

It's when neither of them seems to be getting anywhere Ryan asks, "so what's the deal with you and that Emery guy?" and it takes Shane off guard. So much so that he chokes a little on his lukewarm coffee.

"Emery? What about him?"

Ryan looks embarrassed all of a sudden, paying attention to his plate for the first time in forty minutes and Shane narrows his eyes, glaring with playful suspicion. He thinks he might know where this is going and honestly, he's a little offended. 

"Well, you two are like- like an item right?"

He doesn't know whether to grin at the shy way Ryan is twiddling his fork, to snort at the absurdity of the question or to gape in mock-shock.   
He opts for snorting, "God no, what gave you that idea?"

"What? But- but you had to have been in the past then, right?" He looks genuinely confused, like he can't believe Shane hadn't slept with the irritating British man that follows him around like a lost puppy. Okay, a little harsh. Like a cute lost puppy. The kind that you'd take home with you if you saw it whining in the rain. Though Shane thinks he'd let any stray dog into his home, so that doesn't say much. The point is, he likes Emery as a friend, as family - even if he drives him up the wall sometimes. As _nothing_ more. 

"We have to have been huh? And what makes you so sure?"

Ryan narrows his eyes this time, glancing around at the empty tables around them before leaning in, lowering his voice, "well you- I mean you're- you sired him!"

"Oh, _Ryan_," Shane shakes his head, trying to keep the amusement off his face, "it's not like that, it doesn't mean anything, please stop getting all your information from teen fiction novels huh?" He leans back on the rear legs of his chair, looking around before meeting Ryan's eyes and reciting, "you don't choose the bond, the bond chooses you." With all the enthusiasm of someone held at gunpoint. Ryan gets the feeling that it was a line that was drilled into him at some point when he was a younger, more excitable vampire. He can't imagine Shane more excitable than he gets on shoots, but it's only logical he was more wild, energetic in the past, right?

"Oh. Oh. So you're just friends then?"

"He's like a brother to me," he speaks with sincerity, then seems to think, "or like a son, I guess," he inclines his head, tipping to the side slightly, a genuine smile on his features.

"Okay," Ryan nods, then repeats, "okay," to himself again quietly on an exhale. Shane's pretty sure it sounds like relief, judging by the calming of his heart rate, he's right on the money.

He smiles, looking down at his plate, poking a soggy pancake with a butter knife, he can feel the waitress eyeing their otherwise untouched plates from across the room.

"Shane?" Ryan catches his attention after an overly deep inhale, voice noticeably pitchy and he thinks that maybe this is it, that maybe he'll ask, or he'll just lean over the table, grab his collar and kiss him.

"Hmm?" he hums in response, eyebrow raising in question.

"You-" he hesitates, "Emery can see ghosts right? Like he wasn't just messing with me when he said that?"

_Oh_. Shane frowns, trying not to let his disappointment show, "no- not unless he's been lying to me for decades." Shane quips, though his usual energy isn't there. His fingers tap distractedly on the table, itching for a cigarette to hold, which isn't right because he weeded that addiction away decades ago. It would've been just after- in the months after he left New Orleans.

He flattens his hand out on the table, deciding not to think about it. Thinking doesn't seem to be doing him much good recently. 

"Oh, because I was thinking, maybe we could have him on the show, you know? Pretending to be a medium or something, but we'd actually know he's legit! It would be so cool, what do you think, Shane? _Shane_, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?" Shane looks up, biting the nail of his thumb - when did he start chewing on that? He'd just flattened his hand on the table, hadn't he?

"Emery. New Orleans. Ghosts. Sound good?"

_Emery._

_New Orleans._

_Ghosts._

"Sounds great."


	14. Rubinowo-czerwone krople krwi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubinowe-czerwone krople krwi:  
(Polish;)  
\- Ruby-red drops of blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are gonna pretend Buzzfeed didn't completely fuck TJ over and that their regular crew are just TJ and Mark because I'm lazy. They don't really speak in this anyway so it doesn't make a difference but here we are. 
> 
> *I don't know a thing about how they film their videos so sorry in advance*

The building doesn't look like much from the outside, a black-brick building that stands inoffensively on a row of ten others, like a stack of charcoal on fire, slowly burning away to nothing. The brick looks worn, a testament to the age of the building - so maybe it's something more permanent than charcoal, like death, that seems more fitting - and there's a steel grey staircase running along the side of the building. It leads to a door on the second floor, Ryan wouldn't trust it to not crumple under his feet on the first step. They haven't been given permission to go up there anyway, it's an apartment owned by the janitor. Said janitor refused to be interviewed when asked by the owner, apparently, he isn't sure the owner even bothered to ask.

The owner didn't want to be seen on camera either, which doesn't make for great content, but they'll figure something out.

Ryan had to fight the urge to comment on how their show is giving the bar exposure, and a little interview in return wouldn't hurt. He realises he'd sound like one of those assholes who try to get photographers to work for free by paying with exposure and decides to stay quiet. He's not an asshole, or at least he doesn't think he is, he just really wants this shoot to go right, he has a feeling it's going to be a big one. That means he's allowed to get carried away once or twice, because he's excited, and it's all for the benefit of the show.

There's a large sign hanging above a black wooden door that leads, _"Rouge Rubis bar and lounge, est. 1937"_ in a swirly blood-red font that looks kind of old-fashioned, despite it practically sparkling it's so clean. _Red Ruby_ seems like a comically bad name for the site of a vampire attack, it'd be awful really if he wasn't going to blatantly point out how hilarious it is later in filming. He knows it was called that back then too and wonders if the creature was drawn to the idea of red, like a bull, maybe they see red and go on the attack.

He'd ask Shane but he's pretty sure that's at least mildly offensive. _"Hey Shane, if I waved a red flag in front of your face would you run at it, horns first?" _

Yeah, maybe not.

He wonders mildly if the sign is a replica of the one they had hanging at the time of the murders, he's not sure it matters but that doesn't make him any less curious. He notices Shane's eyes linger on it too, _figures_, he is the history nut of the group.

\--------------------------

"This week on Buzzfeed unsolved we investigate the ghoulish inhabitants of the Rouge Rubis lounge in New Orleans, Louisiana as part of our ongoing investigation into the question, are ghosts real?"

Shane almost forgets to shake his head, completely forgoes making a quip about Ryan's awful and entirely unnecessary French accent. He doesn't feel like joking. No one would, in his position, he's sure.

The flight to Louisiana was an omen, even if he still doesn't believe in those. He should've known this trip would be awful, should've known the rocky travel was a sign. Maybe his disbelief is holding him back, but there's _no way_ being sceptical could be his downfall, he simply refuses that notion. He couldn't have known, there are plenty of documentary worthy murders that have taken place in New Orleans. There was no prior indication as to which one, it's just plain old bad luck.

He couldn't have known. 

He planned on sleeping the whole way through it, the flight, since they were told they only had an hour until filming after they land. (The flight was then delayed by thirty minutes, making that half an hour before filming, but he's not annoyed about that, not at all.) Sitting in between the two most excitable people he knows, he didn't sleep a wink. He'll admit he wasn't in one of the best moods as a result.

His mood once again dropped significantly when they arrived at the mysterious location.

Despite his reluctance to believe in any supernatural evidence, the energy in this building has been making his skin crawl since they'd got here. It's not necessarily oppressive, but the air feels sticky on his skin, cold and uncomfortable - not quite smothering, but enough to want to go outside and get some air, or run away and never return, that's good too. He recalls it being more warm and muggy in the past, that was better, somehow.

Whatever is here doesn't like him very much. He doesn't blame it.

The exterior looked identical to how it had when he'd last been here, dull, unassuming, it might jut out onto the street a little more than the other buildings but that it's only notable feature. The interior, on the other hand, had changed completely.

There were red, velvet booths around the outside of the room, black tables and chairs scattered around a wooden varnished floor in the centre. The bar looks new, dark wood with gold rimming and a lit-up shelf behind it that holds more fancy gin flavours than Shane can even comprehend. And honestly, who really likes elderflower _anything_? It's big, flashy, but in a separate, more modern way than before. 

Honestly, he doesn't hate it. It's a shame _it _seems to hate him. 

\--------------------------

_The air is hot, yet frigid in a way, even on his undead skin as he shucks off his coat and wonders over to the bar. It's his first time in this particular brothel alone, but it's best he starts and ends nights like these without any drunken friends clinging to his arms._

_It'd be hard to explain._

_There would be too many people able to place him there, at that moment in time._

_It's too risky._

_So he sits, alone, in his usual booth with a glass of whiskey in one hand - a single cube of ice - and overhears conversation of a new 'lady of the night' starting her first shift here tonight. His fingers twitch, tapping irregularly on the glass as he listens. She's the innocent kind of pretty, apparently, beautiful in a delicate way, like a daisy. Fragile, just waiting to be broken in, the strangers claim. _

_Perfect._

_He'd wait for her. _

_She would be the one._

_He takes a sip of his drink, his leg bouncing idly, entirely out of sink with the slow blues playing from the live band in front of the furthest wall._

_He reaches his hand into his pocket from where his coat is sat on the cushioned seat beside him, pulling out a small metal tin and a lighter. He takes out a single cigarette, balancing it between his lips before lighting it, watching the flame flicker for a second too long before closing the lid of the lighter and leaning back into his seat._

_He didn't mind waiting. Though he never was known for his patience._

_Tonight he's willing to wait if it means he gets what he wants, and he always gets what he wants._

\--------------------------

The three of them are sat in a booth, all tucked into one end on the far side of the room and there's a traditional-looking chandelier hanging over them that Shane thinks was probably there the last time he ordered a drink here. He doesn't read too much into Ryan beelining straight for the booth that used to practically be reserved for him. The lighting is good over here, the crystal of the chandelier casting their faces in gold. That's all there is to it.

He taps a forgotten rhythm out distractedly on the table until he notices the glare TJ is giving him and opts for squeezing his fist under the table until he nails dig in to his skin instead. He ignores the way Emery is glancing at him every thirty seconds with a look he can't decipher. He has an idea of what that means and he doesn't like it.

The sooner this investigation is over, the better.

"-the bar was founded in 1937 by Eric Waterfront with his business partner and good friend Richard_ "dicky"_ Seigol and was then serviced as a brothel. Oddly enough, according to dicky himself, the bordello quickly became one of the most popular meeting places in the city for businessmen to negotiate and do shady dealings-"

He was cut off by Shane's snort, "a brothel being a popular meeting place for sweaty middle-class white guys? Who'd have thought?" And considering most people would probably look at Shane in today's society and think_ "middle-class white guy"_ Ryan thinks that's a little harsh. _Though not untrue._ His mind defends. He rolls his eyes and thinks he hears Emery snort from where he's sat the other side of Shane, like he's told some inside joke that only the two of them could possibly comprehend.

"-despite the place being located in one of the poorer sides of the French Quarter. Customers at the time often heard him ranting about corrupt lawyers being his main source of income- keep that in mind, that'll come back up in the theories, there are surprisingly very contradicting ideas on what happened to her." He looks meaningfully toward Shane as he says this, Shane nods, Ryan thinks he'll have to remind him anyway.

Shane's still focused on how the gold from the yellowed light above them used to cast shards on her skin just like that too, how it made her blue eyes sparkle in the same way it makes Ryan's deep brown ones shine. It doesn't matter, nobody will know, anyway. It's still a fact he doesn't like noticing, it reminds him how much better Ryan's blood tastes than hers, makes him think about how good it would feel to drain all the blood from Ryan's body.

It's perfect, the scene in his head, swapping out her body for his. It's Ryan straddling his thighs, it's Ryan kissing his neck, it's Ryan's screams he's smothering with his hand as he sinks his fangs in a little deeper.

It's Ryan.

\--------------------------

_It was easy to lure her over, easier than it should've been._

_He takes a long drag of his cigarette, tapping the ash into the tray on the table in front of him before turning to look at her._

_He watches how the smoke in the room distorts the way the soft golden lighting flickers across her skin, mottling it into pretty swirls and patterns, almost hypnotic._

_They were right, she is beautiful, in an angelic kind of way, soft and gentle._

_A whore none the less, so maybe just deceptive. He's sure the devil was pretty too once. Though he's not sure what he's trying to get out of that comparison, trying to convince himself of, as though he doesn't prefer them pretty and perfect._

_As if he doesn't like the sweet ones._

_As if they aren't the most addictive to watch break._

\--------------------------

Shane kind of zones out after that, only making a little quip when Ryan practically hands it to him onto a plate. He knows what happened here in 1944. He doesn't need reminding. But then Ryan starts getting into his apparent theories and he can practically feel Emery buzzing beside him with excitement because, like he reminded Shane on the plane, this is his favourite part.

"With that, let's get into the theories."

Shane straightens a little in his seat, wondering how mock disgusted he should act at each one while Ryan explains the serial killer theory. There are no dead kids in this story though, so he thinks cracking jokes is his best bet at passing as normal.

"-as we know, the detectives on the case at the time didn't believe the death of Mary Thomas to be the first or the last. Within the year of 1944, a total of thirteen girls were reported brutally murdered and drained of blood in different brothels across the upper half of the city, they believed at least nine of the murders were done by Mary's killer."

"Gives whole new meaning to the phrase pump 'n dump-"

"Pump and-" he breaks off in a surprising wheeze, shooting an incredulous look at Shane, "that's not- there was no clear evidence that he slept with any of the victims, though one officer did write in his report that he believed he at least, quote,_ "got a little frisky with some of the girls"_ end-quote-"

"Got a little frisky?" Shane repeated with a scrunch of his nose, "that was before- he didn't kill them then go in for a french kiss right?" He nearly gags at the thought, and you'd think he'd be used to the thought of dead bodies by now, but necrophilia? He can't say that's ever appealed to him. Unless you consider vampires dead, which, I mean, yeah, _technically_, he's slept with a dead body but he was also a dead body in this scenario, and both corpses were consenting, so he thinks it's fine. (Now he's thinking about two zombies getting down and dirty, and he's only partially opposed to the thought, I mean, as long as they use protection.)

"I'm pretty sure they were still alive when he- he got frisky, I don't think dead bodies were his thing-"

"Doesn't want 'em cold and bloated?" Shane jokes, which Ryan worries is a little far - _but you still laughed, so who really has the sick sense of humour, Ryan?_ \- Shane is acting a little weird and he figures he might already have an idea what one of the other two theories might be.

"No Shane, I don't think he does."

He snorts.

"-That lead to the most popular and believable theory that the police at the time had a Jack-The-Ripper-inspired killer on their hands."

"Wasn't this years before Jack?" Shane frowns. As if he'd be inspired by that jerk. He's affronted at the thought. There's also a theory in the vampire community that the ripper himself was a werewolf and the thought of being compared to a glorified house pet makes him heave a little.

"Jack? You two on first-name basis now?" He raises an eyebrow at Shane, grinning lazily, teasingly " but yeah, the Whitechapel murders were in the 80s, it was just a comparison for the audience Shane-"

"Unless the police officers were time travellers, maybe they have time travel across the pond, hoped back from London '88 to help solve the case. You're from London Em, have you been to the future?" Shane turns to look at Emery, who hasn't been introduced yet, because they agreed to do that after the theories like Ryan said, but apparently Shane wasn't really listening then either.

Emery raises his eyebrows, looking a little surprised at being addressed, "I- I feel like that's something the government would hide from us, I don't think everyone in London just hops back to visit the dinosaurs when they feel like it."

Ryan laughs, pretending not to be frustrated at the fact he had a structure for this intro planned and they both just ruined it. He's not even really sure why he's getting worked up over something so little so easily, or the fact that Shane's eyes are now on Emery and not on him. "The next theory-" he says, with intention, and the two stop whatever little conversation they were having about where in time they'd like to travel. It would've been a convenient bit to bulk up the episode if Ryan had gotten involved, he knows his silence means he'll have to cut it out. He can also tell by the looks TJ and Mark are shooting him from behind the camera that the weirdness that he's currently feeling is mutual, though he's not entirely sure they don't blame him.

It's before the third theory Shane quips that it feels like Ryan has been talking for hours, Emery adding that it's like a true crime episode since they haven't even stood up yet and he gets the distinct feeling of being ganged upon. He considers that it can be a cross-over episode for the sake of shutting them up. It doesn't shut them up, because Shane then spends the next ten minutes trying to merge together the words "crime" and "supernatural" for the title and the best he manages to come up with is "supercriminal" which even Emery agrees is an awful effort.

The third theory, of course, is the real reason Ryan brought them here, the one he believes in, the one he expects to get a reaction from, the vampire theory.

Shane has to give Ryan credit, he'd done his research, and the corrupt lawyers did, in fact, come up in the first theory, bribed law enforcement and such like. The whole vampire theory though? Well, he didn't find it as funny as Emery did when Ryan made a full two minutes worth of count Chocula jokes, nor did he appreciate the definition of a vampire written by a certain Polish priest that Ryan recited. It's a common quote when you read into vampire law, Shane just wasn't aware Ryan had been doing so much reading. Part of him thinks Ryan is trying to make him uncomfortable, trying to get a rise out of him, that maybe this is some form of emotional torture and he has to remind himself that this is Ryan Bergara he's thinking about, not Ted Bundy. Though then he's questioning whether Ted Bundy was even that good on the emotional manipulation front or whether he was just a pretty face. Good ol' Ted could've been a vampire he figures, he's a big enough asshole to pass as one. The death of innocent humans also seems to be a common denominator.

It's after that theory Ryan introduces Emery Calvert, British Physic and Medium, good friend of Shane Madej. Shane makes a pointed joke about how he must be a masochist for surrounding himself with believers with a fake scowl on his face. Emery winks at the camera while Ryan visibly blanches, a swirl of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, which is stupid. So damn stupid, the joke addressed him too, and Emery was winking as a joking retort. Still, if he makes sure to stand closer to Shane for the rest of the episode, who would blame him?

The filming goes by pretty fast, Ryan doesn't miss the way Shane and Emery share multiple weird looks when they think he isn't looking and when Emery tells them there is, in fact, a spirit here, a rather angry one at that, Shane doesn't even bother trying to argue. Shane does, however, make a show about complaining when Ryan pulls out the spirit box and Ryan is almost grateful, it's the most normal Shane had behaved all night.

They are all stood in the storage room behind the bar, where bottles have been said to have been flung across the room on multiple occasions when the investigation really kicks up a gear. Ryan sets a lone bottle up on one of the shelves before they all get seated on a cluster of crates and tries to antagonise the ghost to hit it for a good two minutes before moving on to trying to communicate in a way he knows will get a reaction from someone, even if they aren't a ghost.

Ryan holds the spirit box out to the room as he clicks it on and he doesn't miss the way Emery's nose scrunches up as Shane winces. It's only then it hits him that Shane probably as supernatural hearing, and that the sound coming out of this box probably genuinely hurts to listen to. Tonight, he can't find himself feeling bad and if Shane is a masochist call him a sadist because when Shane has to squeeze his eyes shut as he winces Ryan almost grins. It's not fair, it's not right, and he doesn't know why he feels it.

"My names Ryan, this is my friend Shane and our guest Emery, if anyone is here can you say our names back to us?"

_"Kz-Va- zxcHh-der- zZskkr-"_

"Or maybe tell us your name?" Shane cuts in, because apparently now he feels like playing ball.

_"ZzSs- stk- Ma- shk- rZk-"_

"Mary Thomas? Are you here with us right now?" Ryan tries, because they need something.

_"Shkk- Mikolaj- shk- zkr-"_

"Mikolaj?" It's clear, there's no way anyone could miss it, and given the way Shane visibly tenses he thinks that he must have caught it too.

"Sounded more like "Missk- rhkkaj-" to me." Shane shrugs, but his heart isn't quite in it.

"No! It was a name, clear as day, you heard it right Emery?"

"I- erm- I heard something." Emery responds, a little wide-eyed, looking as if he'd get told off for saying the wrong thing and Ryan can see TJ pulling a face from behind the camera.

Then, before they ask another question,_ "skk- rhf- vampi- zkr-"_

"Holy shit!" Ryan squeaks out, staring at the other two, then at the camera with wide eyes, "did you just say vampire? Were you killed by a vampire Mary?"

"Mary? You two on first-name basis now?" Shane jokes, mocking Ryan from earlier, but his grin doesn't quite meet his eyes. Emery doesn't seem to be smiling either now.

"Shut up, Shane," Ryan retorts, listening to the box spit more nonsensical outcries before turning to Emery, "can you see- can you sense anything in here?"

"I can't picture anything, I don't know if it's actually Mary but whatever it is, it feels angry, it doesn't want us here." Emery sounds genuine, and Shane quirks one eyebrow in a way that suggests he's genuinely curious too, maybe even concerned, but that doesn't sound right.

It scares Ryan a little, he surprisingly hasn't put much thought into the whole ghost thing yet and knowing it's really real? Well, it's just kind of hit him. There's really a ghost in the room with them, and it's actually angry. He's terrified when, just before their solo investigations, Emery pulls them aside to warn them that the amount of energy the spirit is showing could mean it's an actual threat to all of them, which isn't exactly what he wants to here.

"You know in those fake shows like Ghost Adventures when people come away with scratches or are overcome with certain emotions? If the ghost wants to mess with you it'll be like that, but real, and probably worse. I wouldn't be surprised if it's been messing with our emotions since we got here."

Ryan sees both TJ and Mark roll their eyes from across the room, it admittedly settles his nerves.

\------------5 hours prior--------------

"You're serious?" Shane asks, from where he's stood beside Emery in the airport restrooms. His tone is hushed but almost accusatory. They'd found out the name of the location they were going to earlier that morning and he was feeling a little jittery as a result.

"I'm not sure it'll work, I mean, the chances are a lot higher since you're my sire, but I've only done this once before."

"So what, I'll just be able to- to see them?" Shane gestures outward with his hands, not really pointing at anything in particular, he thinks Emery understands regardless. He knows they don't have long before Ryan comes to check on them, to rush them out so they aren't late boarding the plane. But they've had to wait an extra half an hour for the plane, so it's only fair the plane waits for them too.

"Well, I don't think- it won't be as clear as it is for _me_ but you'll- your senses will be increased to the- the dead I guess."

Shane runs a hand down his face, he knows its possible for bonded vampires to share abilities, it's not like it's the first time he's heard the concept, but is he really going to do this? Is he really going to face her after all this time?

"Look, Shane, you want to make things right? Or at least apologise? I'm telling you how."

"So I'll just look at you and suddenly I'll be a ghost whisperer?"

"Sure, when you're ready just open yourself up to it, leave me to worry about the rest."

"Right, sure."

\---------------------------

He takes a deep breath, sharing a look with Emery, who nods subtly in some sign of support. He's never been nervous for a solo investigation before, but he's kind of fucking terrified and he thinks he's allowed to be.

He's not prepared for this.

\---------------------------

_She leads him to the room, gentle hand in his, then she's placing her hands just below his shoulders to push him softly onto the bed once they get there. _

_She turns then, to lock the door and his eyes zone in on the way the strap of her dress slips down from her shoulder as she does, revealing an expanse of skin that makes his mouth water._

\---------------------------

It's identical. The walls are the same stuffy, light brown that makes the room seem smaller, with golden trimmings. The wooden floorboards the same deep colour he remembers, a dark walnut shade covered in scratches and black scuffs from half a centuries worth of use. The bed stands in the centre of the room, dark oak frame and black silk sheets below another one of those golden tinted chandeliers that wash the whole room in a yellowish glow. He huffs out a short, _Jesus_, as he takes a moment to steady himself because _shit, niech to szlag trafi, fuck, it's too similar, it's too much._

it takes him a minute to realise he still has a camera strapped to him and he stands up a little straighter, moving away from where he'd unknowingly pressed his back up against the door and calls out, "Mary? Are you here?... My friend Ryan would be super happy if you said yes." He eyes the room, making sure to scan each nook and cranny, he feels more on edge than he has in years, his faint heartbeat thrumming in his ears as he squeezes his hands into fists.

"Y-you could hit me? Throw me across the room? He'd probably be even happier if you did that. Hell, kill me if you can, that'll get views!" He tries to put as much energy into his voice as he can, to sound unaffected, unflappable as he should. He's not sure it's working quite as well as he'd like it to.

He spins around and really there's...nothing. With a short sigh, he seats himself on the end of the bed, where he was sat as she'd straddled him back in the forties and nearly screams when he hears a voice, but its just Ryan, telling him he has two minutes left. _Jesus_.

He unhooks the harness holding the camera to his chest and turns the camera off, tossing it down on the bed. Ryan can say the ghosts did it, or something. Then he squeezes his eyes shut briefly before looking up at the ceiling, "Mary? I know you're here somewhere-" _I can feel it._

And all of a sudden he jumps, flinches, because there's a weight on his thighs and his entire body is tingling with this sharp, bright energy that makes him feel pinned to the spot.

"M-Mary?" His breath catches in his throat and it's visible when it passes his lips, which is strange because it doesn't feel all that cold, but maybe it does and he's just too caught up in the weight on his lap to notice because he can feel it but he can't see her and he's pretty sure it's not just in his head.

\---------------------------

_"So, Mr Madej, was it? What do you want to do with me?" She asks, her tone mockingly innocent, sickly like honey as she straddles his thighs, her hands resting gently on his shoulders as his hands snap up instinctively to hold at her waist, the warmth of her skin sinking through the soft fabric, watching where it rides up around mid-thigh and she shuffles to get comfortable._

_He can feel the blood under her skin even like that and it takes all his restraint not to snap. _ _There's already enough skin on show that it's making him a little dizzy with hunger. _

_"I want to tear you apart," he answers a little too honestly, an intensity to his eyes that makes her shiver, "I want to make you scream," he continues, his voice going low and gruff as his eyes take in every inch of her._

_"Maybe you should kiss me first?" She suggests, her voice weak, shy, it's an act, but he can't say it doesn't do it for him. He guesses that's the point._

_His gaze lifts from where it was tracking the planes of her neck to her eyes, then to her plain lips as he hums, "right, of course." _

_And his mouth is on hers, lips gentle and tentative like a lovers kiss. Or like a kiss from the devil, because surely he loved too once._

\---------------------------

"60 seconds!" He hears muffled through the door.

He chokes on his breath again trying to respond, managing to sputter out a short, "O-okay," which isn't what he wanted to say at all.

_"Murderer"_ He hears hissed into his ear and he flinches away from the sound, visibly shuddering.

He can't get far, the weight on his legs keeps getting heavier.

"No- I-" he clears his throat, "I'm sorry Mary- I should never have-"

_"You're Sorry?"_

He struggles beneath an invisible weight to get up as a sense of dread floods though him, "Fuck- I-" but then he reaches forward to try and grasp what's pinning him down and his hands connect with something solid and ice-cold, it's her waist, he knows it is because he's felt it before, soft and pliable. Except now he can feel the weight on his shoulders too, rough as it shoved him down with enough force to shake the bed. 

He grunts, hair falling into his eyes as he struggles further, there's a tingling in his gums which suggests his fight or flight response is kicking in and getting ready to scream _fight_, but then he's stock still.

"Holy shit-" She's there in front of him in a blood-soaked gown, hair ruffled and matted at the ends with blood, the little makeup he remembers her wearing entirely smudged, "Mary!?"

His eyes flicker frantically across her body, to the bite marks littered across her neck - the little that's left of it - and chest displayed by the low cut of her dress. The deep, fang-torn gash on her wrist, dragging up her arm in a way that resembles two deep claw marks. And the worst wound, the large scruffy bite high on her left inner thigh, it's deep enough that he can make out all the torn tendons, see a hint of bone. Seeing it all now makes him gag, makes his nose burn and his eyes slam shut in an incessant need to just _look away_. He can feel the sharp sting of bloody vomit clinging to the back of his throat as he tries his best not to heave and tears ball up in the corner of his eyes. He's not entirely sure all the emotions he's experiencing are his own, but either way it's horrific.

** _"What was it you asked to me to? To kill you if I can?"_ **

\--------------------------

_He growls as she struggles in his grip from where he'd thrown her down on the bed, one hand over her mouth to muffle her screams and sobs as his fangs dig deeper into her wrist. He's surprised she has as much fight left as she does given the state of her neck but he's pleasantly surprised. She tries to jank her arm back weakly, her fingers twitching, arm trembling as she pulls, her other hand pushing at him from any point she can reach. Just trying to get him off, away._

_An inhuman snarl scrapes up his throat as she attempts to push his head backward and he sinks his fangs deeper in retaliation, tearing the skin before jerking his head sideways, using his fangs to shred the flesh up her arm and pulling back, watching in awe as the blood begins to pool._

_He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders as he looks down at her, removing his hand from over her mouth to listen to her quiet sobs - no one will hear her over the sound of the loud music anyway._

_"P-please I don't- I don't want to d-die I-" she coughs and chokes on her own blood as it slips down her lips, "-have mercy, please," she begs as he pins her down._

_He does no such thing, mercy a foreign concept to his clouded mind as he listens to her weakened pulse. There's enough blood in her that he can still drink from his favourite spot so he spends one last moment watching her struggle to keep her eyes open before he shuffles down the bed, eyeing the pale skin of her thigh where her dress had rode up during her struggle. _

_He runs a finger across the deepest vein there and he hears her yelp out a ragged, "no, no-" but then he's hooking an arm under her knee and raising her leg so he can sink his fangs into the soft skin there and he groans as what's left of it sluggishly oozes onto his tongue._

_ He feels her give one weak, shaky kick before her consciousness slips away._

\---------------------------

_"Are you going to beg for mercy?"_ She asks as she reaches for something below the pillow, above Shane's head, where he can't see, _"are you going to beg as I did?"_

"Look I- maybe we should talk about this-" he scrambles for the words and he tries to look back at whatever she's grabbing for then there's a knock at the door.

"Shane? Times up!"

He opens his mouth to speak, but her hand is covering it before he has the chance. His eyes widen as he stares up at her unblinking face. Dread consumes him entirely, completely as he sees what she's holding in her other hand.


	15. In absetia lucis, tenebrae vincunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In absetia lucis, tenebrae vincunt:  
(Latin;)  
\- in the absence of light, darkness prevails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was on hiatus to focus on school work but isolation screwed that up so I guess I'm writing again. 
> 
> Blood warning, but I mean, if that was an issue you probably wouldn't still be here. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! :)

The door refuses to budge when Ryan frantically jerks the handle, no luck when he slams his palm against it and curses whatever entity is listening.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't open at his swears either, he thinks he feels his heart drop. _What if he never gets out? _And he knows he's being irrational, he's sure everyone will tell him as much, that doesn't mean he has to listen. Shane is trapped, and he's allowed to worry.

"I'm sure it's just jammed," TJ offers from behind the camera with a shrug, Mark nods in agreement, Emery frowns with a shake of his head.

"It's her," Emery mutters, shoving Ryan out of the way and trying the door for himself, "It has to be." He's got this undefinable look on his face, almost guilty, almost withdrawn, as if he knew this would happen, as if he regrets not planning for this in advance. He stands as though he's preparing himself, for what, Ryan doesn't know.

"Her? You mean- you think Mary is trapping him in there!?" Ryan squarks, starting at the door as though the mere suggestion both offends and mortifies him, probably because it does. What would the ghost of a slaughtered prostitute want with his, smiley, inoffensive Shane Madej?_ Okay,_ Shane might be a dick to spirits sometimes, but he doesn't deserve this...whatever _this_ is. (Or maybe he does, a little, maybe he's literally asking for it, but still. Who could hurt _Shane_?)

"I think the door just got stuck." TJ reiterates because he's game for this whole ghost thing, he really is, to some extent. But ghosts magically locking doors when the best evidence they've ever gotten on camera is a ball rolling under some graffiti just doesn't sound plausible to him. It could also have something to do with the fact neither he nor Mark were particularly confident in Emery's so-called abilities, and really who could blame them? It's not like they know, it's not like they could ever know.

Ryan would love to believe it was something as simple as an old door getting stuck too, he honestly would, but by now Shane should be trying the door for himself, or at least ironically screaming at the ghosts to let him out. That's the thing, that's what's gotten him a little shaken, he can't hear Shane anymore and if Ryan Bergara goes more than thirty seconds without hearing some kind of witty remark, directed at himself or otherwise, he knows something must be up.

That's why the next rational thing for him to do is to ram into the door with his shoulder, and look, maybe he's been skipping a few workouts recently, but the wood on this door is ancient, and Ryan's arms are _big_. It should at least shudder a little, splinter under his weight. It doesn't budge. (Aside from the wall of dust that wafts into the air, but that doesn't do much other than make him sneeze.)

"Ryan- Ryan, Buzzfeed are going to be mad if we have to pay repairs," TJ points out, and he's right, they barely had the budget to fly out to all their locations this season, but Shane is stuck in there with some psycho poltergeist and Ryan be damned if he doesn't break that door and save him.

"Are we sure he isn't messing with us?" Mark mutters, though his face says he's already answered that question in his head. Shane knows when to call it quits, Shane knows not to get Ryan too worked up on an investigation because it'll be him that will have to calm him down afterward.

"Even Shane wouldn't carry on a bit this long."

The muted lighting above them weakens, the bulb makes a sick crackling noise, but doesn't explode. 

Ryan glances over to see Emery shaking his head, playing with the chain around his neck, he thinks he catches him muttering _"Christ Shane,"_ under his breath. That's just one on a list of the many things Ryan thinks he read on his lips, it's certainly the most PG. 

"Emery?" Ryan prods with a frown, his eyebrows scrunching when the vampire doesn't turn away from the door, "is something wrong?" Something more than everything that's already gone wrong, he means.

"He's in pain, I think." He pauses, the crease between his eyebrows deepening, "the bond is troublesome sometimes - hard to read - it's confusing but I can- I can almost feel it." His voice takes on an English tint, more than usual at least, and there's something in it that bothers Ryan. He knows Shane slips into Polish when he's stressed, it wouldn't surprise him if Emery's old-timey accent is similar in that way. Still, it sounds unnatural, put on almost, or the opposite, like he's trying not to slip into an old accent, slip into an older time. He wonders if it gets like that after living so long, memories battling with reality, everything merging, it would explain the way Shane seems to be slipping up a lot recently. It's not a nice thought, the idea that you could wake up not knowing what decade you are in, what century.

He opens his mouth to speak, then stops. What can he say to that? Well, other than, "I think we should turn off the cameras," before shooting a purposeful look at TJ, who nods, pausing just a second before doing just that.

It's at that point Mark sighs and suggests they should try breaking the door again because it's Buzzfeed that will have to pay for it, not them anyway. Mark might just be saying that because he's got a little bitterness stored up toward the corporate entity, but it's good enough for Ryan as he throws himself at the door a second time without warning.

Mark will later be awarded the title of_ "fucking genius"_ by Ryan in the most earnest way possible because when his shoulder connects with the wood is cracks, splinters, shudders as it should. The hinges squeak and give in as Ryan stumbles to the room, arms flying out as he tries to stop himself from falling face-first onto the cold, hard floor; he manages, somehow as he wobbles on his heels and quickly works on searching his room with eyes.

It doesn't take long then, for him to see - takes little more than a_ "well shit,"_ in his ear for him to realise - Shane's alone, on the bed.

Or Shane looks alone on the bed, but he can't be alone because Ryan doesn't think Shane chokes on his own blood a lot in his own time. (Though he's really lacking on his vampire knowledge still, so maybe this is just a fun activity for Shane, who knows?)

"Oh fuck, Shane!" Is the only thing he can think to squeak out as he runs over to the bed, or tries to, but Emery grabs onto his shoulder to stop him, "what the-"

_"Wait."_

He doesn't have to wait a second before an animalistic snarl fills the air, he has to wait a second for his mind to process that it came from Shane.

Shane bares his fangs, eyes aflame with a demonic red as he reaches up to grab a whatever force is causing blood to spill from his lips, but as fast as his arm enters the air it's pinned back down to the bed. It's only when a sharp whimper that sounds almost cat-like exits through Shane's gritted teeth Ryan realises that very hand is now splattered with thick, too-red, yet somehow too-black blood, held to the bed thanks to the weapon stuck through it. He's certain under any other circumstance he'd laugh at the idea of a wooden stake being used as a weapon but in this case, it makes him stand stock still, horror boiling through his veins because he's finally located where the blood spilling from Shane's lips is coming from.

His throat is torn apart, flesh and blood in a dirty puddle and Ryan thinks he knows where that stake was before it made it's home in Shane's palm. He also thinks if adrenaline wasn't already flooding through his veins he'd be gagging at the sight instead of wanting to run over to help.

Mark and TJ are frozen in the doorway, Emery's grip tightens on Ryan's shoulder and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to save him, only that he has to as the stake twists in its place in Shane's palm, causing a ragged groan before it's torn out, evaporating into the empty mass above him.

He can almost imagine the translucent hands clutching the hilt of the weapon as it's raised above Shane's writhing body and he knows he has to do something, so he jerks forward where Emery's grin had gone slack, but now he's a step closer to the bed all he can think to do is yell out, "stop!" with all the power in his lungs.

His flash of courage is only seconds long as his eyes widen with the realisation he's talking to a homicidal ghost and, naturally, a shaky, "um, _shit_, I-" comes next.

He can't see the stake anymore, much less sense it, but there's this feeling of impending suffering burning up in the air and Ryan doesn't know if the source is Shane or the ghost.

Shane's eyes open from where they'd been slammed shut in pain, they meet Ryan's.

Ryan has gotten a lot of different looks from Shane in his time, he's gotten better and better at reading them, that look though, of agony, of terror, of something resigned - as though he's already accepted his fate - that isn't a look he'd ever be ready for. It's a look that crushes his soul and builds it up at once, because it's a look that says Shane needs help, that he needs protecting, and Ryan wants to be that and only that, always that, forever.

"Mary Thomas, stop!" He glares at the ominous nothing, and nothing is all he gets back.

And the problem, with being a protector is that generally, you have to be stronger than the one you're protecting, stronger than the thing you're protecting them from. And the problem with Ryan, is that he's a human, trying desperately - and admittedly with increasing futility - to protect a vampire. How ironic.

It's cruel really, how little he can help, how little he really knows.

It's embarrassing, in all honestly, it crushes him, because here he is, Ryan Bergara, self-declared ghost expert with no damn clue how to protect the man he loves from a fucking ghost. That's the most ridiculous part, isn't it? They've both been asking for this for years, irrefutable proof, and now it's here and it's quite possibly the worst day of Ryan's life. It's probably in Shane's bottom ten.

"Shadows." Emery cuts in from behind him, "Mik- Shane, Ryan's shadow."

Ryan's face scrunches up in confusion, he can't imagine how TJ and Mark must look, "what-"

"I can't," Shane grits out, "I don't- I-" and up until now Ryan had been convinced his vocal cords had been torn apart. He's kind of glad they aren't, but hearing Shane's voice sound grisly, like worn tires on asphalt might be worse.

His face scrunches up, less in pain and more out of strain, fighting with the effort to do something, probably to get his body to move. "O Boże, pomóż mi-" _oh God, help me_ he growls out as he stretches out his good hand, the one closest to Ryan and clutches at the darkened sheets, shaded by Ryan's silhouette against the rusty yellow light.

Except, it takes Ryan a moment, another look to realise it's not the sheets scrunching up under Shane's hand but his shadow itself, the blackened air.

"I'm not- Jesus- pierdolona dziwka-" _fucking whore,_ Shane barks out, teeth bared as his grip tightens on the shadow, Ryan thinks he sees his eyes darken impossibly before shifting back to a burning red and the snarl slipping out of his throat turns into a whine "-it hurts,_ I can't_-"

The room flickers in and out of darkness, yellow to grey as Shane's grip tightens further, (Ryan doesn't know if it's in his imagination, but he'll tell you in the future he feels that death grip on his heart.) His eyes slam shut as he whimpers on a sharp intake of breath. In a fraction of a second, the light goes from dim to burning and Ryan doesn't realise Shane is gone from his spot on the bed until the bulb buzzes unnaturally and Ryan's shadow on the bed stretches out as is someone is trying to pull it away from his body, or as though he's just grown dramatically in height.

"Holy shit- is that- is what I think is happening actually- oh my God." Ryan's head spins as he looks back to Emery for confirmation.

"Ryan, come here, now!" Emery snaps, and Ryan apparently failed to notice the moment his fangs had slipped out and his eyes turned a wild red, "_now, Ryan!_"

He flinches as the tone, nearly reels back onto the bed at the sight but no, that's a bad idea, the real monster is on the bed, with a weapon he can't see, and Shane is gone, so he scrambles toward Emery's voice and past him, bowling straight into Mark and TJ, out of the room.

The three of them collapse into a pool on the floor and he hears the door slamming shut behind him.

"Shane-" he coughs out into the darkness of the hallway- which isn't right, because the lights were on, the lights don't turn off, or more so they weren't allowed to turn the lights off. The owner had warned them against it, something about damaging the circuits and old wiring, which makes less sense now than it did then (and it never really made much sense.)

It didn't matter then, because one glance around the place told Ryan that the dim, yellowish lighting made everything seem scarier than the dark anyway - he'd like to retract that statement now though, because _this?_ Not being able to see, not getting a response, suffocating in the dense air, feeling the still bodies of his coworkers beneath him and nothing else? It feels like a nightmare.

_It feels like being buried alive._


	16. De omnibus dubitandum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> De omnibus dubitandum:  
(Latin;)  
\- be suspicious of everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I say "sorry this chapter is short" before I realise I'm just kidding myself and 90% of the chapters in this fic are short so you are already expecting it?
> 
> Tune in next time to find out!

Consciousness comes back in waves, a sea of black clouding his vision before it settles, or so he thinks. But then another wave breaks, crashing against the shore of his awareness, pulling him back under. It's like being smothered, being drowned, not getting the chance to fill your lungs before you're plunged back under again. It's torture. He's not sure how long he's like that, lying on the wood-panelled floor, the smell of harsh disinfectant making him grimace as he pushes himself up.

The light above him is on again, washing the dirty hallway in a sickly glow. He decides now that the place looked better in the dark, in the light it looks like that place hasn't been touched in centuries. As though the hallway has been left to collect dust, empty and uncleaned. He vaguely remembers being told the staff don't like coming down here because of the bad 'vibes' and almost laughs looking back on it, because that might just be the understatement of the century. It's weird, because the main bar and seating area looked welcoming almost, probably to make them lower their defences, he tells himself. Though he is also very aware that would mean the ghost got the staff to keep up the appearance of the bar just for them, just on the off chance they would lower their defences enough for Hane to get attacked, and even he admits that sounds a little ridiculous. 

When he takes in the scene around him he spots TJ and Mark first; they are stood a little further down the corridor, talking calmly among themselves as though everything is fine.

That doesn't sit right with Ryan for multiple reasons, mainly because of everything that just happened, the very feeling racking through his nerves and filling him with the notion that nothing is fine, nothing at all. Besides, he vaguely remembers crashing into them as he escaped the bedroom, barely remembers feeling their weight beneath him once he'd fallen. It doesn't make sense that they would be stood over there chatting happily away without a scratch on them. It feels impossible, basically, it feels like either he's going crazy, or they are.

He keeps looking, squeezing his eyes together and blinking in an attempt to get them to focus as he pushes himself up onto his knees. There's a dull ache there, in his knees, in his shoulders as he pushes himself up, but it doesn't feel like anything unbearable. The closest comparison he can think up is the lingering soreness that follows him for days after he'd pushed himself too far at the gym. In fact, the comparison is uncanny. It's not the stinging feeling he experiences when he falls usually. It's not scraped hands and knees or the need for Shane's fingerless gloves, rather a weak throbbing of overexertion.

That's the most absurd thing, it feels almost normal.

He sees Shane and Emery behind him when he finally turns to take in the rest of the hallway. Shane is curled up against the wall next to the door, knees up to his chin, face buried into his arms where they sit atop them. He looks like a sulking child, curling away from a parent's yelling that's on the wrong side of too harsh. Protecting himself as though he's bracing himself for more while simultaneously looking like he's given up fighting whatever pain he's experiencing. Like it's already got the better of him as he's curled up on the floor in defeat. Vulnerable is the word, he decides. Shane looks vulnerable. Helpless, powerless, weak. 

It doesn't feel normal anymore, it feels virtually impossible. Shane Madej doesn't do weak, he just doesn't, not like this.

Emery is stood there beside him, unintentionally towering over his cowering form in a way that looks as comical as it does heartbreaking because for once in his life, Shane looks small.

Emery is bouncing his leg distractedly as he stares at the door, waiting for the entity to come through and finish the job. After a while he seems to give up, deems them safe enough to take his eyes off the door.

He glances around the corridor, his eyes finally meeting Ryan's. Whatever emotion his face was scrunched into while he wasn't aware he was being watched turns blank, like the flick of a switch. Ryan wonders if all vampires repress their feelings or if he learnt to keep them locked inside like that from Shane. That being said, Shane doesn't seem to have much of a grip on his emotions right now. He hasn't had control of them in a while when Ryan really thinks about it. (There goes his theory that Shane was a robot all along, damn.)

"Good, you're awake." He mutters, his accent taking on that exaggerated tilt, sounding distracted, "Think you're okay to drive?" He tenses his leg in an attempt to stop it trembling as he speaks, straightening himself up against the wall. He's trying his hardest to look nonchalant, as though his friend isn't bleeding on the floor at his feet. It'd be kind of admirable, if he'd managed to pull it off.

Ryan's face contorts into something questioning, his brows turning inward, his lips downturned into a frown. Shane is curled up in a ball covered in his own blood and well, he's more concerned about _that_ than getting back to the hotel. Surely that's the more urgent issue? He states as much and Emery chooses to ignore him.

Instead of responding he nods toward TJ and Mark, "They'll take the equipment back in one car, you will take me and Shane back in the other. Unless, of course, you want that ghost to come out here and kick all our asses?"

He's not asking anymore, and Ryan will admit its more than a little intimidating, and a lot fucking rude, but he must be stressed, for all he knows Emery could be projecting on what Shane is feeling through their weird bond, so he nods. He'll go along with it for now, for Shane. Plus he likes Emery, he's a cool guy, at least from what Ryan has seen and heard. Shane seems to like him well enough, and Shane doesn't like shitty people.

Mentally though, he challenges Emery's fear that the ghost will attack them all together like this. It clearly got Shane alone for a reason. And it was a stake the ghost - Mary - attacked him with, which means that reason is at least partly a result of Shane being a vampire.

There's this funny feeling in his chest that tells him he knows why Shane was the target, a feeling that he chooses to ignore because he's not entirely sure what it means yet. 

It was all a coincidence, right? She would've jumped at the chance to attack any vampire she'd been able to catch alone. If it had been Emery in that room, he'd be as bloody and beaten as Shane, wouldn't he?

\--------------

It takes Ryan roughly two minutes to fully stand without toppling over, clutching onto the wall as dizziness crashes over him. When he is stood without the support of the wall he notes that TJ and Mark have already gone, and Emery is crouched down beside Shane. He looks up just to say, "go on ahead, we'll meet you at the car," and _that?_ That pisses Ryan off. 

"Won't you need help in getting him there?" He asks, instead of breaking the vampire's nose and Emery scoffs, he fucking scoffs, as if that isn't a perfectly natural offer. As though he wasn't trying to be nice, because he likes Emery, or he did. He likes the guy he met when he was bringing Shane blood, when he was making jokes and expressing his love of the show. This guy in front of him right now? He's acting like entirely different man and the worst part is that Ryan almost understands it. Or at least, he's trying to.

The man in front of him has probably lived multiple different lives, acted a million different ways and in all those lives he probably wasn't always nice.

It's like Shane, who sometimes laughs at grotesque facts during the show and sometimes recoils because of them, depending on the day. It's like Shane, who sometimes uses archaic words that throw Ryan off, and sometimes uses internet terminology that makes _Ryan_ feel old. It's like Shane, that doesn't so much as blink at jumpscares and laughs in the face of demons yet rests his hand on Ryan's shoulder to comfort him when he's scared as if he's been there, as if he's felt exactly what Ryan is feeling and knows how to make it go away. It's when Shane gives him that look with his molten caramel eyes that isn't pity or concern but empathy, understanding that Ryan realises that Shane wasn't always fearless. That there must have been times when Shane flinched at the wind and sought out comfort in someone he trusted too.

That leads him to question how many lives Shane has lived, and in how many of those would Ryan have liked him, wanted to know him? In how many of those lives has the loveable soft ball of fun he knows now done unforgivable things? Is this the first time someone has felt so much hate toward him they wanted him dead?

"I'll handle it."

"He can't even talk!" Ryan snaps back in response, because it's true, at least as far as he knows, "and I'm strong enough to carry him, let me help, I can help."

"With all due respect, Ryan, I could throw you down the hall with one hand if I wanted to-" (Ryan is certain he's exaggerating, like the hyperbolic asshole he apparently is) "- so as far as I'm aware, I'm the one that's more equipt to help him. If you want to help, go start the car." In his defence though, he nearly manages to sound as though he doesn't want to throw Ryan against the wall, he almost manages a civil tone, even if he has to grit his teeth to do it.

Ryan clenches his jaw, but he knows a big argument here isn't going to help, he's not even entirely sure where all this tension came from. So instead, he thinks of the one thing he can do that Emery can't.

"Okay, okay, but at least let me- he's injured, let me give him some of my blood, to heal him or-"

"Ryan," Shane grunts out, gruff and cracked somewhere down the middle, "just listen to him," Ryan can tell by the way he's talking his teeth are gritted, his entire face crushed together in pain and his arms seem to tighten where they are hugging his knees. He doesn't raise his head to add on, "p-please." The way he says it sounds like defeat, like begging hurts worse than his wounds. Almost like getting Ryan to leave is worth suffering longer for.

Emery watches him expectantly and he feels like he's been caught out doing something he shouldn't, but he just wanted to help, he's just trying to help because Shane is hurting and he can't do anything, he needs to do something. That's what's frustrating, Shane knows him, Shane knows he must be working himself up like this and yet he sends him away anyway. 

He knows that isn't fair, that Shane is probably completely out of it, he's probably terrified, but so is Ryan and Shane should know that. Shane would know that. Does he not care? And honestly, while he's thinking about it, he guesses he'd always considered himself the friend that would comfort Shane when he's scared the way Shane comforts him. He guesses he thought he'd be the one giving Shane that look of understanding, of something so far off from pity. He always thought if the time came he could be to Shane what Shane is to him. But apparently he already has that. Apparently that's Emery. That's okay, it really is, he understands. That doesn't stop the way it hurts.

Still, he does as he's told and mentally beats himself up for acting like Shane's loyal pet, acting like an obedient dog to his word and his word only, it's pathetic, he tells himself, but he still doesn't turn around. He starts up the rental car, flicking through radio stations and keeping his eye on the clock.

Ten minutes pass before the doors to the building swing open. 

Shane and Emery hobble out together, one of Shane's arms across Emery's shoulder, Emery's arm mirrors it. It's instantly clear, even in the darkness of the night that Shane is hobbling, and Ryan curses Emery again because if he's so damn strong he should be able to carry Shane properly, not make him walk like that. He thinks he must be missing something, or that he's going crazy, maybe he knocked his head and ended up in a coma when he fell because there is just no possible way this is going the way he thinks it is.

He reasons that he could be the ghost, with how much his presence is being ignored. Yeah, that's it, he's dead and Emery is too kind to tell him he's a ghost. Shane is just trying to figure out how to let him down gently. Maybe they are trying to push him away in hopes he just slips on over to the other side without too much trouble. He ignores the massive plothole there that he's never heard of a ghost capable of driving a car - though _technically_ he's not driving yet.

Shane's face is tilted downward, likely with strain, his neck too weak to hold up his head (if the situation wasn't so serious Ryan would've made a joke). His free hand, the one with a fucking hole through it is curled up into the centre of his own shirt, staining it with a harsh red dye that looks a shiny black in the early morning moonlight.

Ryan thinks he should jump out of the car and help them, but he doesn't, purely out of spite, because they didn't need his help, they said so. 

He instantly regrets that. The idea of Shane being in any more pain than necessary leaves bile in the back of this throat so he jumps out the car and runs around to open the back door for them. He can't quite meet either of their eyes as he does, especially not Shane's.

Despite Shane always joking about dying for the cameras, despite all his taunting of demons Ryan never really believed he'd see Shane hurt on location. He never really let himself wonder what would happen if one of the entities he taunted listened and did what he'd told them too, if they threw him at a wall or tore out his spine through his mouth. The only time his brain comprehends such a thing is in his nightmares. He thinks that's why it hasn't hit him completely yet, like he would have expected it to. He thinks that's why he isn't a sobbing mess coddling Shane, he's still trying to convince himself this is a nightmare. If he locked eyes with Shane, if Shane really saw him he's sure the realisation would hit him. He's sure all it would take is Shane's watery, pain-filled eyes to shake his reality to its core.

So he doesn't look as Emery slips Shane straight into the backseat then slides in beside him without so much as a thanks.

There's a moment he just stands there, hovering at the back door Emery shut once he'd slipped, and ponders swinging the door back open and pulling him out of the car by his hair, telling him to find his own way back. He'd tell him he's sick of vampires and all their cryptic bullshit, that vampires being shitty at communicating is an overplayed trope and that he should tell him everything he knows about what just happened right fucking now. There's a brief moment he wishes he had the wooden stake the ghost had assaulted Shane with, but then it's gone because he would never- he could never. (And okay, so maybe this whole thing is getting to him a little more than he'd like to let on.) So instead he lets out a short huff and stops around to the driver's seat, making an overdramatic show of putting on his seatbelt and glaring at them to do the same in the rearview mirror, or rather glaring in their general direction, because he still can't make himself look. Then he slips the key in the ignition and starts the short, yet somehow painfully long drive back to the hotel. 

It's when their 5 minutes away from the hotel, driving consistently eight miles above the speed-limit (because he doesn't have a death wish) with Ryan white-knuckling the wheel when someone finally breaks the loaded silence. Though Emery's words don't exactly ease the palpable tension in the car.

"I think it would be best Shane stays in my room tonight," 

Ryan's knuckles turn steadily whiter. 

"Just so you know, I can keep an eye on him," he adds, as if that makes it even slightly better, it doesn't. 

Ryan, because he can't bare arguing tonight, because he just wants to sleep and knows he won't be able to either way, just nods. Then, because he's unsure of whether Emery has seen him, makes a hum of agreement, "if that's what he wants." 

When he glances in the rearview mirror he catches Shane staring back at him, eyes strangely void of any real emotion. Though he thinks he sees concern, pity maybe. Ryan looks away first.

\---------------------

When Ryan gets into his room he resolutely ignores the empty single bed beside his, sheets wrinkled from where Shane had jumped on it earlier when claiming it as his. He pretends he doesn't see Shane's backpack still sat against his pillow. Though he does wonder, mildly, if Emery will knock on the door in the next half an hour to grab Shane's things, or whether, if when he slides into the rental car early the next morning to head back to the airport Shane will be wearing Emery's clothes. Neither option feels right. They both feel, somehow, like losing. He's not sure what winning is supposed to be. He thinks it would feel something like Shane.

He manages to fall into a sort of half-sleep before he gets a text from TJ in their work group chat to alert him that the flights have been set back a day in lieu of Shane's bout of_ 'sickness'_ during the shoot. Ryan scoffs, but fine,_ 'sickness'_ is one way of putting it, he supposes.

He thinks he's heard Shane refer to vampirism as a disease a few times now, though his preferred terminology seems to be _'Ryan, it's a curse'_. In some ways that used to excite Ryan, because Shane's admittance that curses exist sounds a lot like the possibility of witches, or something with the ability to curse, something vengeful and all-powerful, maybe. Tonight he doesn't have it in him to care about witches or vengeful Gods. Tonight he doesn't have it in him to care about bossy vampires or violent ghosts either.

Though the text does remind him how unaffected TJ and Mark had seemed after he came to earlier that night and he frowns at the memory. The idea that the two of them could really think Shane was just sick earlier leading to possibilities running wild in his head.

One thing for sure, they don't remember the night the same way Ryan does, they can't do. It's not possible, because Ryan knew about the existence of vampires and ghosts and such like, he's always believed and he still freaked. They didn't believe, they didn't react. He does consider the fact that they are just broken, that the situation pushed them too far and their brains are trying to rationalise for what they saw. That's low on the list of possibilities for him currently though, he's imagining something far more sinister.

His worries, or theory rather, are confirmed when Shane replies,_ 'sorry guys, I've really gotta learn to lay off the airport hotdogs'_ and TJ and Mark both reply in agreement. 

Shane didn't eat at the airport.

He must be the only one who feels sick right now because something is wrong, something is so, so wrong. But he's going to figure it out. He needs to. 


	17. To jak budzenie się z jednego koszmaru w drugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To jak budzenie się z jednego koszmaru w drugi:  
(Polish;)  
\- It's like waking up from one nightmare into another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of filler but it was still fun to write so I hope it's fun to read?  
I'm just struggling with getting the next chapter right and I wanted to publish something so here we are.
> 
> I'm sorry in advance--

The street is damp, the light of streetlamps ricocheting off the asphalt in the atmospheric way it only seems to in the movies. The rain is like a mist, light but ever-present and the buildings seem to tower intimidatingly inward, jutting out into the street as if defending their territory, from what, he doesn't know. The sky is a rolling grey, no stars in sight, the moon a sickening red against the darkness.

He doesn't think he's ever seen a blood moon with his own eyes, he doesn't remember hearing that one would occur during their trip. He'd have taken his handheld camera with him on his walk if he knew, or even his phone. He feels like an idiot for not even bringing that.

The world seems quiet, aside from the slight whipping of wind, the way it howls against trembling windows, whistling something so far off from any man-made melody he knows.

There's this sense of etherealness to the world around him and he wonders if the french quarter always feels like that at night, as though it's a great expanse free for spirits to roam. It feels fragile somehow, like if he took a breath too loud he'd break whatever preternatural peacefulness has fallen over the world. It feels like something he shouldn't be seeing, yet it feels somehow like it's just for him. It's a beautiful limbo.

He feels calm, utterly relaxed, and it's that gentle, lulling feeling under his skin that hints to him that something is not quite right, because he's always nervous about something.

It's then, as anxiousness starts to tickle at his spine he really takes a look at his surroundings, awareness shattering any serenity he'd felt mere seconds ago.

He looks at all the buildings with no doors, at the absence of windows, despite the sound of wind waging a war against them. The lack of signs, or lights, or balconies on any of the brick buildings. The inability to distinguish shops from apartments from bars from restaurants. The fact that there's no one but him out on the streets at night in a nocturnal city like this.

There's the sensation of goosebumps trickling up his arms as he looks up and realises the clouds, smog, dust, rain have smothered out the dirty crimson light of the moon, it's distorted beauty hidden from view.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he realises the street is getting darker, streetlamps getting further apart as he walks ever deeper into the repeating street, every step identical to the last. The dwindling streetlamps the only sign he's actually moving forward. It occurs to him now that the conjoined, featureless buildings look a lot less like buildings and a lot more like large, endless, brown brick walls.

He realises, after what feels like hours of walking that this street has been going in a straight line, with no groves or turns or twists, no alleyways or trailing paths. It's like being trapped in an endless tunnel with a sky for a roof, the moon the only witness to his misery. He realises this, at around the same time he gets an incredible urge to _run, now, run, run, run,_ like some prey instinct.

All of a sudden he doesn't feel so alone.

All of a sudden he's certain this world isn't build just for him to see.

And so he runs, and runs, and runs, until his legs hurt and his head throbs and he's panting for breath, leant up against the wall set to imprison him.

There's a cold sweat coating his body, sticking his shirt and jeans tight to his skin, though maybe that's the rain. Because it's that kind of rain, the kind that you barely feel, the kind that you barely see until the point where your dripping with it and he _is_ dripping with it. His hair is clinging to his forehead like it thinks it's safe there, finding refuge, his boots are squelching with every dreadful step.

Yet despite how drenched he is, despite feeling smothered in this clinging water the street still has that perfect sheen of barely damp that reflects the bronze of the lamp shining down from across the street.

He almost stops there, gives in. He almost drops to the floor, willing to pass out and drown in the constant cool of the rain, willing to give in to his confinement as the futility of it hits him full force, like wind pushing him back.

There's this feeling that maybe he's been moving in retrograde all this time, going backward for every step forward, that maybe he's not moving at all, that the lamps are some illusion. Like a mirage - no a hallucination, because mirage implies natural, mirage implies phenomenon and he's almost 100% sure there is nothing natural about any of this, that his mind is playing some kind of cruel trick on him. Or maybe, his brain is trying to stop him from going insane, as he surely would in the dark, by providing light that isn't really there. 

But Ryan has never been one for giving in, especially not when he looks up and sees what he thinks is a break in the wall far along in the distance, a crack in the stability of his prison, a hidden alleyway that screams _hope_. It also screams _hallucination_ because he never claimed to be anything more than a pessimist, but he'll try ignore that for now.

Which is funny, because he's never looked down an alleyway and thought anything other than, _'I'll probably get murked if I go down there,'_ before.

So he shoulders himself up from his slacking lean on the wall, weight back on to wobbling legs and he starts what he hopes to be the final stretch of his journey.

Every step he takes feels harder than the last, the unpleasant squelch of his footfalls the only noise flooding his ears as he realises the wind is no longer rattling nonexistent windows, the raw rubbing of wet denim against his legs making his physically cringe at each movement. The feeling of rain is still absent on his skin, but he thinks it's still falling.

_Squelch, Squelch, Squelch._

There's a part of his brain telling him he should call out for someone, asking him why he hasn't, why he hasn't called out for help. It's strange, he doesn't feel alone, yet he looks it, and in all the miles he's walked he's seen nobody. So why is there still this bugging in the back of his head that tells him if he shouts, someone will hear it?

_Squelch, Squelch, Squelch._

Why is there an even louder voice telling him that he doesn't want whatever is here to hear him? Why is that voice telling him that his steps are too loud, that he's already too late?

He reaches the entrance to the alleyway. The streetlamp behind him flickers out.

The world is cast into complete darkness and all Ryan can do to escape it is hobble blindly down the narrow street he prays leads to his freedom. Yeah, this is worse, he'd like those hallucinations back, please.

As if prayers had been answered, behind him, the streetlight flickers back on, illuminating the ashen grey brick lining the walkway, glinting off the red-black ink-like substance that oozes out the cracks, dripping slow and thick like molasses. Ryan gets a strange, nagging urge to swipe his finger through it and bring it to his mouth, he resists.

Jutting out from the colourless, bleeding walls are obscure objects, black, protruding and obscuring his view, they are like half-formed shapes, flickering in and out of colour. Along one of the walls one of the shapes, tall and vertical flickers in and out of existence, colour fading and returning. If he squints, it looks like a bed, old fashioned and ornate looking, entirely out of style, yet somehow familiar. He can't make out the rest, or if he can, he forgets what they were as soon as they flicker back into obscure, swelling blackness. If they are hallucinations too he figures there is some kind of importance to them, his subconscious trying to tell him something that he should already know. Oh well.

As he's trying to make out swirling shapes of nothingness, as he's trying to make sense of something just out of reach, the alleyway ends. There's no brick wall, or even an empty expanse of black, which is what he was expecting by this point.

No. There's a door.

It's a door like any other, ordinary, looks a little like his bedroom door at his parents home - a lot like that door actually, the same pen-drawn height chart along the length of the frame.

Still, there's this entirely irrational orchestra of voices telling him to go back, to walk to another way, that there must be another route and you love exploring all your options don't you Ryan? Why choose this one without looking for others?

He ignores them.

He reaches for the handle of the door, but as soon as he starts to turn it he hears a clattering behind him, he jumps, arm retreating from the door as he spins round to face his attacker.

To face whatever monster he's felt following him all this time.

There's no one there, but there is a key, ornate like the bed, brass and blackened with dirt. It looks like one of those old skeleton keys he sometimes sees people wearing as necklaces. He picks it up, but his old bedroom door doesn't need a key, it didn't lock, so he struggles to figure out its use.

When he turns back around, however, it's not his childhood bedroom door staring back at him.

It looks like an old wooden cellar door, grey paint peeling off the panels. He frowns, eyes the lock, slotting the key into place and turning.

There's a distinct _click_, so he tries the handle. It opens.

Inside, there it is, his old childhood bedroom, everything slightly off-kilter in vibrant technicolour.

There's this flood of warmth, safety, protection following over him before he hears it, a shattered sob.

His first thought is _mom_ because he's home and his dad doesn't cry, or at least when he does, he doesn't let Ryan hear it. His second thought is _oh fuck, it's coming from my wardrobe._

It takes him a couple of minutes to buck up the courage, but as the sobbing gets louder he finally starts walking over to the wardrobe, the wardrobe that's far older looking than he remembers, with faded gold accents, but maybe his parents decided to redecorate a little _whatever_.

He places his hand on the doorknob, swallowing hard and telling himself he's being ridiculous, that there's nothing in there, there isn't any noise coming from inside anymore and it was probably all in his head to begin with.

God, is he wrong.

The closet door swings open, and out of it plunges a corpse, rotting and bloody, dropping with a harsh _thud _onto the carpeted floor at his feet. Ryan jumps back gags, and as the body rolls from where it had fallen on its side to lay face up, white, cloudy eyes staring straight at the ceiling, jaw unhinged, he throws up. He's sick all over the floor, retching and spluttering, noise stinging and running, eyes burn because the _smell_ and oh, oh he's seen that face before. He spent hours staring at pictures and sketches of it during his investigation.

_Mary Thomas._

He screams, God does he scream. And when he's done he backs away, stumbles out of the door and back into the monotone alleyway.

The tries to catch his breath there, slamming the door shut behind him, eyelids screwed closed, lungs heaving in air.

He feels it then, a shift in the air, goosebumps spreading over olive skin.

He opens his eyes, Shane is staring back at him, in full colour, harsh against the dull shades of the walls surrounding him, head tilted as he watches him, curiosity bouncing in those smoky oak eyes.

"Shane?"

His head tilts further, eyebrows furrowed inward,_ like a cat,_ Ryan thinks.

He's wearing a suit of a different time, black slacks, a grey suede jacket that looks slightly too big and waistcoat, an untied tie hanging around his neck, a pocket watch, a matching grey hat that resembles something between a fedora and a bowler in one hand.

"Shane man no offence but what the _fuck_ are you wearing?"

Shane's eyes narrow, head straightening, pulling his shoulders back to stand at his full height, it's intimidating, "who's Shane?"

Ryan shakes his head, "I'm not in the mood for bits man I was just- there was a dead body and-"

"You saw the body?" He looks a weird mix between disappointed and delighted and Ryan doesn't have the sense to work out what that may mean.

"Yeah it was-"

"Well now, that just won't do, will it?" He takes a step toward Ryan, blatantly looking him up and down. Ryan gets the urge to take a step back.

"Shane what are you talking about-"

"No, we'll have to do something about that."

"What the hell-"

His head tilts to the side again, considering, pupils wide, there's something about him that looks sub-human. "Well, I guess I could still eat."

"Man, this really isn't funny."

"I'm not joking," he meets Ryan's eyes, "you know you really should think about running."

"What?"

He rolls his eyes, ruffling his hair before placing the hat back on his head, "it's no fun if you just stand there, I said, _run_," His eyes flash red, face turning a shade paler as he smirks, fangs glinting in a nonexistent light source, "I'm feeling generous tonight, so I'll even give you a ten-second head start."

Ryan frowns, eyes the man in front of him, tries to find any glimpse of humour on his face, but there is none.

"Ten."

It's then it hits him, Shane is serious. His eyes smouldering with a dark kind of hungry Ryan's never seen. 

"Nine."

_"Holy shit!"_

"Eight."

"Shane, man seriously this is- come on bro, buddy it's me! Ryan, your ghoul buddy, your-"

"Seven."

"Please Shane I-" He sounds desperate, voice cracking, tears welling in his eyes because there's no way this is how he dies.

"Six."

"You're my best friend! You don't really want to kill me!"

"Five."

"I won't tell anyone about the body I swear I-" he's panicking, doesn't know what to do.

"Four."

Surely he wouldn't actually try to kill Ryan, right? There's no way.

"Three."

He can't take the risk.

"Two."

Ryan runs past Shane out into the direction he first found himself on and it only occurs to him now that he doesn't remember how he got onto that endless street in the first place, he'd thought he'd come from the hotel, but he doesn't remember ever being at a hotel now.

"One."

He tries to ignore the cramping in his legs, the nausea washing back over him as he hears a laugh that sounds far too wicked to be Shane coming from behind him.

_"Ready or not, here I come!"_

He's out of the alley and into the main street when he hears footsteps pounding against pavement behind him. He gasps, pants, almost trips but manages to carry on as the steps behind him get louder and the rain picks up again, the wind howling, rattling, screeching louder than before, almost overpowering the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

The street continues on and on, as it did before, sparse streetlights littering plain asphalt, a wall of muddy coloured brick lining his way, far too tall to see over into the unknown.

The footsteps behind him stop, they could've stopped a while ago, he's not sure, all he knows is he's still running and the monster wearing Shane's face isn't.

He keeps going, but after a while of hearing nothing but rain and wind he stops, legs nearly falling out from under him as he does, chancing a look back. It's just an empty street.

He gasps out, dropping to his knees as his body shakes with exertion. It's then, kneeling down, staring down at the still only slightly damp ground he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh come on now, at least stand-up and face me while I kill you." The creature mocks in mimicry of Shane's voice. Because it's not Shane, it can't be, Shane could never be this cruel.

Still, because he's caught, because he's got nothing left to lose, he makes no move to stand up.

The creature laughs, a darkened, twisted version of Shane's laugh. Ryan feels his stomach contort and churn into something pained.

"You're brave in death. I respect that." He mutters, before tightening his grip on Ryan's shoulder, tugging him up by it, throwing him up against the wall so he has to face him anyway, "stupid," he tuts, "but brave."

Ryan grits his teeth to stop himself from whimpering as he reaches up to clutch his shoulder, where it's surely already bruising judging by the pain. Not that it matters, not really, he's a dead man anyway.

"Whatever you are, you're not Shane!" He spits.

Shane grins a grin that's far too toothy, fangs sharp and pointed, looking almost comically long, like a caricature of Shane's real vampiric features.

"Oh baby, I never claimed to be."

He steps forward until he's chest to chest with a trembling Ryan, bent at the knees as though he's ready to buckle under an ounce of pressure.

His hat is gone, along with his suit. He's in <strike>his</strike> _Shane's_ favourite burgundy chinos, his denim jacket riding on broad shoulders, sheltering his black jumper from the rain and suddenly it's so much harder to separate the monster from Shane. The water is sticking his too-long hair to his forehead, reaching down over his brow, clawing at his burning red eyes, the same red as a blood moon that's long since disappeared.

He leans forward to whisper into Ryan's ear, "I'm sure you understand I can't let you leave here, right? You saw the body and well, I can't have any witnesses now, can I?" He runs a finger down the side of Ryan's face, a touch too soft, too intimate.

Ryan whimpers, shakes his head no because he doesn't know what else to do, and well, there is some logic to what he's saying. He's ready to give up now, if this is what he wants, if this is really what Shane needs.

Shane leans back to grin, opens his mouth to speak and Ryan thinks he looks so much like himself all of a sudden, thinks he looks like he's about to joke it all off. Instead, his smile deepens into something that looks unhinged before he states in a sympathetic voice, "if it makes you feel any better, I doubt anyone will care that your missing," and then he feels his skull bash against the wall and a sharp pain burn through his throat. There's a hand in his hair, yanking far too hard to keep his head back, neck exposed.

He knows he should be fighting back, knows he should be screaming, knows he should be doing something. But he can't. He doesn't want to, because he's feeding his best friend, and if Shane needs this, that's fine, it's a better reason than most to die for. And it almost, if he closes his eyes and ignores the pain in his legs, his head, his shoulder, it almost feels good, the feeling of consciousness slipping away.

Shane pulls back, Ryan can barely see him through half-lidded eyes, the world blurry, he thinks Shane's hand in his hair is the only thing holding him up.

He sees a slip of white as he thinks Shane must grin, big and wide, he sees an expanse of red over what he thinks must be Shane's chin, "you know it's a shame," he murmurs, soft, lulling, "you taste good, I'd like to keep you-"

Ryan murmurs something unintelligible, he's not sure he knows what he's trying to say himself.

"You'd like that too huh?" He laughs, "do you know how pathetic that is, _Ryan?_ Offering yourself up willingly to a vampire. Are you that desperate to please someone you'd be a walking blood bag for someone like me?" He tuts, "it's tragic really, how lonely you must be to resort to that, to resort to being friends with a vampire." He spits out.

Ryan thinks he sees him wipe the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, "well, goodbye, Ryan Bergara, you won't be missed." Are the last words he hears, blunt and entirely uncaring before he feels Shane's hands on the side of his face, jolting his head sharply to the right, there's a sharp snap and the last thing he feels is searing pain.

Ryan wakes up alone, sweaty in his hotel room with a throbbing pain in his legs, shoulder, and most worryingly, his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot make myself stare at this any longer to edit so sorry if there are any mistakes.


	18. Strach, wściekłość, użalanie się nad sobą, cokolwiek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strach, wściekłość, użalanie się nad sobą, cokolwiek:  
(Polish;)  
\- Fear, rage, self-pity, anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing dialogue stresses me out, I got a headache just thinking about writing this chapter but here it is finally.
> 
> Disclaimer: smoking is bad, don't smoke kids! (But also it's your body, do what you want, I can't stop you :/)

By the time Ryan locates the bathroom light he finds himself stood in front of the mirror and the pain in his legs is long gone. In fact, he feels like he has energy to burn, not cramped up from hours upon hours of running, which he thinks he should feel, which he felt approximately thirty seconds ago.

The skin on his neck looks untouched despite the burning that was there moments ago, he runs his hand across the length of skin as if to assure it isn't smothered in blood he can't see, but he's not too surprised when it comes back clean. It doesn't hurt anymore and he's starting to accept that it really was just a dream, a stupid, stupid dream.

Sure, it'll haunt him for weeks, probably, they usually do, in some mostly-forgotten form - because he's already struggling to remember what he was so scared of in his childhood bedroom, or how he got there in the first place, or why he remembers holding a key when he knows his bedroom door had no lock.

He'll probably see fractions of it in his sleep for nights on end, half-formed flickers of that demonic grin in Shane's face, distorted screaming of that tormenting wind. It'll follow him home, as nightmares always will; but it was just a dream, so he'll get over it.

He sighs, turning away from the mirror as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, deciding a shower will help clear his mind and hell, maybe he'll even go for a walk afterwards.

According to the alarm clock beside his bed - the one he'd been just coherent enough to check on the way in here - it's 06:17 am, which means he's got plenty of time before the crew inevitably knock on his door for something.

They got back to the hotel at around 03:00 am last night, which means the crew will likely be asleep late into midday. Still, he knows the request is inevitable, for Shane and him to film some B-roll, to find something to cram into the video after their early end to the night. They'll need something, because they didn't even get to Ryan's solo investigation and they sure as hell can't use Shane's.

Approximately seven minutes and a smear of shampoo in his eye after stepping into the shower he notices the patchy purple blotches staining the skin of his shoulder, like four large freckles coloured like plums. Or like bruises, that's probably the more accurate description, because that is exactly what they are.

He frowns, straining his neck to try to get a look at the whole thing, to try to figure out what the uneven speckling pattern is supposed to be and what caused it.

It feels like something he should remember getting.

He shrugs it off in favour of finishing washing, presuming he must've hit it off the headboard in his sleep, or the bedside furniture when he was panicking.

Sometimes when he has nightmares he'll try to lash out in his sleep, getting tangled in the sheets and usually ending up falling off the bed, maybe something like that happened and he hit off something hard enough to bruise. (Even if he hasn't done that since he was in Elementary school. Even if there's nothing in the hotel room could cause marks like that.)

When he looks closer at the bruising in the mirror after he gets out of the shower, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, he realises it looks a lot like a handprint, purple fingers clawing over the cusp of his collarbone.

Af if spotting the marks unlocked something in his brain, there's this abrupt moment where he feels rain on his skin, asphalt against clothed knees as he kneels in a world he can't make out. He feels something grabbing at his arm before he jerks back away from the mirror on instinct and stumbles back into the bedroom suite, laboured breathing from a run he doesn't remember taking, not quite.

Ryan shakes his head, perching on the edge of the bed, still half-wrapped in a damp towel, hair still dripping as he rubs his eyes. When he looks back down at his shoulder there's nothing there, just smooth plains of skin and he curses himself and his active imagination, hoping it's nothing more than that.

He thinks back to the nightmares he'd gotten after leaving the Sallie house, how real they'd felt. How Helen had seemed twisted and bloody when he'd woken up next to her, until she'd flickered on the light and comforted him back when they were still together.

He remembers the priest he'd spoken to when he'd suspected Shane of being _something _warning him of the dangers of playing with malicious spirits. Well, Mary Thomas sure held a lot of malice.

He prays to anything listening he doesn't bring anything evil back home with him because he's not ready to deal with that again.

The irony that he'll be sat beside two vampires on the plane on the way to said home isn't lost on him. He finds it almost humorous, actually.

Once he's dressed and the digital clock beside him still reads that it's far too early for anyone else to be awake, he slides his phone and hotel room keycard into his pockets and steps out of the doors of the hotel, deciding to walk left.

His walk turns into a jog, which slowly turns into a run because he's antsy, with far too much energy to burn and he's still a damn gym rat at heart even if his membership has been neglected a little recently - he's just found out his best friend is a vampire, he's allowed to slack a little.

He sees far more of New Orleans than he ever got the chance to on their last trip here when they came to see bloody Mary and honestly, he has to admit, it's kind of pretty.

In fact, it's kind of gorgeous, colourful signs and cast-iron intricate balconies, planters with bright greenery hanging from windows and shop ledges. There are winding streets everywhere, leading to food markets and street performers earning their way in the world.

There's soft slow jazz spilling out onto the street from a fancy looking pizza place on one of the corners where tourists are sat on peeling white painted iron tables and chairs, sharing platers and tapas spread out along them.

And of course, the further he wanders the more beatdown little stores all claiming to be _'New Orleans #1 shop for voodoo!_', all their products _'100% authentic!'_, stocking_ 'Genuine rare ritual objects inside!'_

In another world, he can almost imagine himself running a shop like that, probably in an airport, or next door to a Starbucks.

He almost steps into a dainty looking one offering 50% off on spiritual readings but he's a little too scared at what they might find.

Eventually, he slows to a halt, checking the time on his phone and realising he'd been walking, jogging, running for near to two hours now, and figures he should head back to the hotel. It's strange, it's like time was moving without him, or something, because it feels like it's only been half an hour, but he does have a habit of spacing out when he thinks too hard so it's not the weirdest thing to happen to him this morning. 

Not that anyone is worried about him, he's gotten no messages to indicate anyone else is even awake.

It does, now he's fully concentrated on where he's going - or at least trying to be - take roughly two hours to get back to the street their hotel is on from where he ran to. Though he did take two wrong turns so maybe it _shouldn't_ take that long and he's just awful at getting from A to B. 

The last thing he expects as he rounds the corner to their hotel is to see Shane stood on the little patch of grass outside, just off from the main street - it's like a tinny little garden with one bench and one tree - he's grinding the toe of his shoe absently into the grass, eyes staring up into the clouds. Most notably, to go along with this he's blowing smoke out into the air, likely from the half-burnt out cigarette in his right hand.

More surprising than that though, is the fact that he looks _good_.

Not that he doesn't usually, it's just that, he'd nearly died yesterday. He's allowed to look awful, he's _meant_ to look awful, tired and scruffy like Ryan thinks _he_ probably does right now.

He's wearing his ghoul hunting boots, with a matching thin, brown, cotton jacket that's relatively new; he's wearing dark blue skinny jeans and Ryan can't really tell what's under the jacket from here but he'd place all his bets on a black turtle neck.

It's not the clothes that make him look good though, it's the way his skin is practically glowing, a shade more tan than usual. The veins on the shaky hand holding the cigarette - bringing it back up to his lips - are protruding in a way that surely can't be legal and his hair is that tousled kind of perfect that you just want to run your hands through.

And honestly, Ryan has never condoned smoking, has never found it attractive, but there's something about the way Shane is stood there in the late morning sun, staring off into his own world that makes him look so damn good. _Like sin_, his mind supplies, he doesn't argue.

He considers turning into the hotel and not disturbing the older man, but as he takes his first stride toward the door Shane turns his head to look at him, blinking as though Ryan's subtle movement knocked him out of a daze.

Even with a few feet between them, Ryan catches the very moment Shane's eyes seem to focus on him, like a cat's, shattering the glassy pondering look they were likely sporting beforehand, pupils shrinking as he squints in Ryan's direction.

"Ry, hey, what are you doing up this early?" He asks soft, though his voice sounds a little worn down, rough like he hasn't used it yet this morning. He's probably just woken up then, Ryan figures, which bears the question; where did he get the cigarette and why does he feel the need to smoke now? _(Stress, probably Ryan, because he almost died, remember?) _But it wouldn't be the first time, the only difference is the accepted Ryan's blood the last time he was in a bad state. Even then though, Shane didn't look this alive.

Now he's looking directly at Ryan it's clear it's one of those rare days where the bags under Shane's eyes are nowhere to be seen, his skin looking dewy and fresh. He feels like a creep for taking so much notice.

Ryan eyes him wearily, looking for any sign of the wounds from yesterday, looking for a sign that something is off. Aside from the cigarette slowly burning to nothing in between the_ 'v'_ of Shane's index and middle finger he finds none.

He hesitates for a moment, before settling on the truth.

"I had a bad dream, decided to go burn off some energy, early morning jog." He explains as his eyes linger on the cigarette in Shane's hand, on the slight tremble there as he pulls it away from his lips.

Shane's eyes widen briefly as he breathes out, "holy shit really, me too!"

He seems almost excited at the prospect that both of them apparently had a bad nights sleep and it reminds Ryan once again that Shane Madej is one hell of a strange man.

"Really? What happened?" He knows he shouldn't care, that he should get straight to what's important but Shane has got that look on his face like he's got a story to tell and Ryan really wants to listen. He always wants to listen really, because Shane has got a radio voice, the kind that you could fall asleep listening to, but could alternatively stay wake listening to for hours. He should start a podcast, but Ryan doesn't think now is the time to bring it up

"I was in the line for some hotdogs at that truck a couple of blocks from work, you know the one I'll sometimes go to on the way home?" He gestures out with his hand in some random direction, as though he's pointing out the truck that's currently a two-hour drive and a plane ride away.

"Yeah," Ryan nods, frowning, this doesn't sound like much of a nightmare, but then he's never quite understood why Shane is scared of half the things he is. (But Shane would probably say the same thing about him so pot, meet kettle.)

"Well there were these teenagers behind me, horrible boys Ryan, like little rats," he scrunches his face up in an expression that Ryan thinks is somehow supposed to reflect _'rat'_ and well, yeah, it kind of does actually, but maybe that's just his face, "scary too, scary rats, you know what I'm talking about?"

He's got that glint in his eye, the same one he gets as he reels off the script for a line in the hotdaga he's really proud of, a look that's always seemed kind of scary to Ryan. It usually always means he's going to get left confused, a little worried for his friend's sanity and on the odd occasion, kind of turned on.

Still, Ryan nodded, a soft smile appearing on his face before he can stop it, _idiot_.

"So anyway, they all reached into their pockets-"

"If they were behind you how did you see them reaching into their pockets?" He cuts in, just to see the frustrated look flash over Shane's face.

He brushes him off with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. "It was a _dream_ Ryan, anyway, so they all reached into their pockets and in sync, they all pulled out these little ketchup packets and they just-" he mimes pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it into the air, "-they threw them at me! I was livid Ryan, _livid!_ One of them burst and got sauce in my moustache!"

"You don't have your moustache anymore-" Ryan tries, _again_, because interrupting Shane will never not be funny.

"_Dream_, Ryan! So, where was I?" He looks like he's really pondering for a minute, clutching his chin, "oh, yes!" He claps his hands together as he remembers and the way his eyes sparkle as he does shouldn't be cute, "I was so darn angry I thought, _'that's it! I'll show these boys, nobody messes with Shane Madej!'_ And charged at the suckers."

"Charged-" Ryan laughs softly in disbelief that this is what his morning has turned into, "So what did you do to them?"

"I meant to give them a piece of my mind, but my body had other plans." He mutters, looking down at the ground, kicking his foot out like he's embarrassed, like he has to be enticed into saying it.

"Oh yeah?" Ryan quirks a brow, playing faux interested, though he _is_ genuinely interested at this point. 

"Yeah, I started doing cartwheels, _cartwheels_ Ryan!" He gives Ryan a pained expression, as if he's recounting a horrific experience, both arms flinging out to emphasise his point, "and they weren't even _cool_ cartwheels, they were slow!"

"That's truly shocking Shane." His grin betrays the deadpan tone of his voice.

"Do you want to know what those teen men did next Bergara?" 

"_Teen men?_"

"They laughed! Of course they laughed! Who does cartwheels outside a food truck? Me, that's who! And by god have I learnt my lesson!" He's looking at Ryan, eyes wide in emphasis but there's a smile slowly spreading across his face that suggests he won't be able to stop himself laughing for much longer.

"You're such an idiot, Shane." Ryan wheezes in a voice that's far too fond.

He grins back, smug, "I've never woken up more horrified Ry, honestly, I think it'll haunt me forever, that one." He looks out into the distance as he says it, trying to seem pensive.

"Yeah yeah, whatever you say, big guy."

Shane's smile fades a little as he continues to look off into the distance, Ryan only now notices Shane's hand is empty, he wonders where the stub of the cigarette went. Ground under Shane's heel, probably, though there is a trash can beside him that he probably could have reached over and slipped it into while Ryan was distracted by the absurdity of his story. Both his hands are in his pockets.

"But are you okay Ryan, really?" He asks, looking back into Ryan's eyes for the last part, maintaining eye contact as if he'll find the truth in them.

"I mean the nightmare wasn't fun but I'm used to it, I guess it would just be nice to get a good nights sleep for once, you know?"

Shane frowns thoughtfully, "yeah."

Ryan pauses for a second, contemplating whether saying what he wants to say is worth ruining this moment. "What about you, is everything really okay?" It is, apparently.

"Yeah, I'm good." He shrugs simply, it's clear he's not fully engaged into the conversation anymore. He's twisting the toe of his boot into the dirt again and it's more than a little irritating.

"Good." Ryan hums in response, playing nonchalant, looking away at anything but Shane as he takes a deep breath in.

"Mhm." Shane hums, oblivious.

"So I won't feel bad for yelling at you."

"What?" Shane frowns, looking back to Ryan, giving him a blatantly an affronted look, but Ryan needs to get it out now or he won't ever say anything at all.

"Because seriously, what the _fuck_ Shane!?" He snaps, it's close to a whisper yell, conscious of the other people on the street, so he has to lean in a little to make his point, eyes wide, not necessarily looking angry but frustrated for sure.

"I'm- sorry?" He looks stunned, unprepared for the sudden change of conversation, where Ryan leans in he reels back. Ryan fights back the urge to gloat, because it's hard to catch Shane off guard.

"You almost _die_," he widens his eyes like he thinks that's something that should get a reaction, "then you and your pretentious vampire bodyguard practically ignore me all night." He gestures to Shane, the up to a random hotel window that definitely isn't Emery's to make his point. "Shane, I was worried, could you not even send me a text to tell me you were okay?" He's not sure he has it in him to properly yell, he sounds more desperate and defeated than anything, which was definitely not what he was going for.

The fact that he has to look up so far to meet his eyes doesn't help either, in fact, he feels kind of stupid on all fronts right now, the back of his neck burning with the embarrassment of starting an argument in public, though in reality, he doubts anyone can even tell they are arguing. And they aren't really, or if they are it's a very one-sided argument with only one real participant because Shane doesn't look angry at all.

"I didn't- It was just a few scrapes, Ryan, I've told you before, I'm ghost-proof baby," he tries deflecting, an uncertain smile on his face, Ryan doesn't look impressed. His voice is a pitch higher than usual, he looks desperate not to do this here, but too bad because Ryan is on a roll.

"A few _scrapes?_ You were wearing your own blood like a fucking puppet!" And he certainly manages to sound angry with that one.

"If it was a puppet wouldn't it just be on my hand? It was more like a costume if anything."

Ryan levels him a glare, Shane raises both his hands in silent defence.

"I was _worried_ Shane, I _am_ worried and you're just stood out here cracking jokes, all smiles like nothing is wrong-" Ryan stresses because he really feels like he isn't being listened to.

"Nothing _is_ wrong Ry-" Shane tries, looking around awkwardly at everyone else on the street, looking just as embarrassed as Ryan feels, but he knows Ryan is too stubborn not to make a scene now.

"-and don't even get me _started_ on how Mark and Teej apparently think you were sick last night Shane because-" his voice is raising with every word he gets out.

"-would you relax-" Shane grits out, cutting him oof, taking a step toward him, because he's used to being embarrassed in public sure - he works at BuzzFeed - but on his own terms, where all the bits that are too awkward for human consumption can get cut out.

"-no one is telling me anything and I feel like I'm going insane. I couldn't sleep last night Shane and when I finally closed my eyes I pictured you ripping my fucking throat out so-"

"What, _what?_" And Shane is definitely looking around to make sure no one is catching what their argument is about now.

"-Please just stupid up and stop pretending. I can't take all this mysterious vampire bullshit from you, Shane, you're supposed to be my best friend and you spent the whole night with Emery! And I get that you've known him longer but I thought me and you relied on each other Shane, I thought I'd be the one you came to when you were scared-" he doesn't necessarily sound angry anymore, more defeated than anything and that's worse.

"Ryan, slow down, please-" Shane's hands aren't in his pockets anymore but are tugging through his own hair instead, he's chewing on the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from snapping because he knows Ryan is hurting and he's allowed to be angry but this is really testing his patience. 

"-I just, I thought that maybe what me and you have is special but It's not because apparently what you have with him is something better and- and fuck you, just fuck you Shane. You're such an asshole! Why are you such an asshole all the time when I-"

"Ryan, Shut up!" He snaps, face red, hands clenched into fists and when he catches Ryan's expression he immediately regrets it.

Ryan looks broken and sweaty and red and angry and _sad. _He's shaking and wringing his hands together, opening his mouth then closing it again as if Shane has stolen all his words away.

Shane is instantly filled with regret, frustration and guilt as he steps toward Ryan's trembling form, reaching out to grab him, maybe comfort him in some way but when his hand connects with his shoulder he jerks back like he's been burned, eyes bright with fear.

Ryan looks up at Shane as he sharply retracts his hand, taking a few steps back, he watches the hurt flicker over his eyes, watches the way Shane's face twists into something sour and painfully sad before he can cover it up. 

"I'm sorry I just-" Ryan starts, even though he's not entirely sure he is right now, it's not _his _fault he hurt his shoulder in a dream, it's not his fault Shane touching him there was a reminder of that even if the bruises and the pain are long gone.

But Shane scoffs, shaking his head as he looks back up to the clouds, if Ryan didn't know any better he'd say there were tears in his eyes.

"It's fine, I'm gonna just- I've gotta go." Shane grits out.

And with that Shane walks past Ryan, careful not to accidentally touch him, and _now_ Ryan feels bad, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach, "Shane, wait-"

"Go back inside Ryan, maybe catch up on all that sleep I've apparently been preventing you from getting," Shane speaks over his shoulder as he keeps walking down the street Ryan had just come from.

That fucking hurts.

Ryan sighs, chewing anxiously on his lip and wondering how he came out of this argument the guilty one.

He takes Shane's advice and goes up to his hotel room, curling up on his bed without bothering to kick off his sneakers, blankets pulled up over his head like a barrier between him and the world.

If he sobs himself to sleep at two minutes past ten in the morning it's no one's business but his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shane's dream is a dream he apparently really had, as seen in [this tweet](https://twitter.com/shanemadej/status/1248043040851128320?s=20)
> 
> Angst, angst, angst.


	19. Ten dar, który ci dał, mówi wszystko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten dar, który ci dał, mówi wszystko:  
(Polish;)  
\- The gift he gave you says it all

Anger and guilt wage war in his head, an army of regret suited in a muddy green, the colour of calla lilies dying leaves, an army of frustration in a deep, daunting red, the kind of red Shane has always associated with rotting organs. They'll battle in the back seat of his brain until there's only one soldier on each side, at which point they will shake hands and decide they can co-exist just fine in Shane's head, he suffers more if there's two of them. (But guilt would win, if they didn't come to an agreement, guilt always wins.)

Sure, he's handling this badly but he never claimed to be able to handle almost getting slaughtered well. It's stressful, he's _stressed_. Cut him some slack. Ryan just doesn't get it, okay sure, he was in that car crash that one time, but that doesn't count, he shouldn't have gotten in the car with Roland. He should've known better.

Regardless, thinking you're about to die in a crash and thinking you are about to get murdered and two completely different experiences, Shane's been through both, he'd know. Ryan should feel bad for him, Shane thinks, he shouldn't be mad, he doesn't have the right to be mad. And that's where Shane's anger kicks in, irrational as it may be.

Sure he only nearly got killed because he killed the ghost first, but that doesn't make it _less_ scary. He's already died once in his life and he doesn't want to do it again, especially because a little vampire blood in his system won't bring him back this time as it did back then.

And Ryan's been having nightmares about him, he's supposed to be okay with that? He's supposed to accept that? He didn't- that's the opposite of anything he's ever wanted. That's not okay. Ryan can't sleep and now it's Shane's fault? For being what he is? How on earth is he supposed to fix that? 

He doesn't want Ryan to suffer, he doesn't want Ryan to feel sad or scared or bitter. Honestly, he wants Ryan to be happy, he wants to go home and be best friends, but he knows he hasn't been great nest friend material lately. And that's where the guilt would win over, if he'd let it.

He's frustrated, worked up and too energetic. Just off the edge of jumpy and sporadic. Like a child that's had too much sugar before bed, and now that child is swinging on the bars of his bunk bed, whining about how he's not even tried and can he at least play on his Nintendo DS™ for ten minutes mom? He promises he'll be quiet.

That's probably how he's walked so far without even realising where he's going, all that energy jolting through him with nowhere to go, it's distracting, makes his fingers tremble and his muscles twitch.

He stops where he's stood, staring up at the building he's found himself in front of. _Boutique du Vampyre._ It feels like some sort of sick joke. He wonders if the universe is laughing at him right now, mocking him for the situation he's found himself him.

If he was someone else looking down on him right now he'd be laughing too. He'd probably find it a little less funny if he knew this was the same street Ryan had ended up on less than three hours ago, seriously universe, _what the hell?_

He sighs, rolling his shoulders and steeling himself, like he can shake off all his frustration and that electric energy buzzing under his skin, curling in the tips of his fingers.

The Boutique looks like an average occult shop, from what he can see through the windows, and it seems as good a place as any to buy what he needs.

He's getting a gift for Ryan so he has something to pry him with when he inevitably goes to grovel. He'll get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness if he has to, he just thinks and pretty spiritual candle or crystal pendant might help. 

The thing is, Ryan's easy to shop for, he always has been. Get him anything from a $200 collectors edition of one of his favourite movie sagas to a $3 candle off of Etsy and he'd be happy. Maybe that's the problem with everything in this store, he figures, as he walks down the slim aisles. Rows of wooden oak stacked with voodoo dolls, cute little wooden coffins, miniature gargoyles and stacks of incense and he's certain Ryan would smile at every one of these things.

The issue is, he doesn't deserve something Shane has picked up on a whim, he might accept Shane's apology if he hands him a cute little Nosferatu keyring but that doesn't mean Shane should get him one. It needs to be special, meaningful, it needs to be right.

At some point a woman comes over to ask if he needs help, she's got sleek black hair and a polite smile, the nametag on her lacey, gothic blouse reads _Marita. _

Shane smiles back, tells he has no idea what he's looking for. She laughs.

"Well we are most well known for our vampire accessories," She suggests, pointing to a shelf where a hand-whittled stake sits most prominently, Shane holds back a shiver.

"I don't know, that might be a little too on the nose," he replies, without really thinking, eyes skirting over a Celtic-looking black cross and he really does shiver, eyes flicking back to the shop assistant. She has an eyebrow raised, confused look on her face and he realises what he said. _Kurwa. Fuck._

"Erm, yeah-" he rubs the back of his neck, "me and my friend are in town for a show, we are investigating the Rouge Rubis murder." He thinks that's the easiest way to put it without having to say,_ we have a youtube channel, we are ghost hunters, we work for Buzzfeed,_ because they always get questioning looks. Really, he doesn't want to answer another awkward question about if working at Buzzfeed is as awful as it sounds.

"I'm guessing by murder you mean the multiple vampire attacks that occurred in brothels all over the city in the 1940s?" She gives him a challenging look, and though he thinks there's amusement in her glance he isn't sure.

He raises an eyebrow, though he shouldn't be surprised, talking about the attacks is probably part of her job description.

"Well, we are only investigating the one so-"

"But it was the same killer." She states, and yeah, she's definitely challenging him, though he can tell she's not being too serious now. 

"Supposedly yeah but-"

"You don't think one vampire is capable of all that killing?" It sounds condescending almost, the way she says it, like, _'Aww cute, you think vampires care how many lives they tear apart? Aren't you funny?' _Which is honestly valid, considering no, he didn't care, but he still feels like he should take offence. 

"No I'm sure he killed more than just Miss Thomas but we don't have the budget to-"

"_He?_"

"Well- or she- I guess?" He frowns, not sure what she's getting at. This is kind of like arguing with Ryan, except he doesn't want to make jokes at risk of offending her, and she's white, and a woman. Really the only similarity is how determined they both are to have their points heard. 

"You guess?"

"The investigators at the time believed-"

"They believed there was a human man who thought he was a vampire, I know, the leading theory was that he had some kind of mental disorder that leads him to believe he was some kind of hematophanite, which was quite a progressive way of thinking for the time. But wouldn't a female killer make so much more sense?"

"How so?"

"Well, how can a male killer sneak into so many businesses and kill so many women without being spotted by anyone? The articles at the time had suggested the women probably trusted him since he was a regular to all of the establishments, yet no one could name him?"

"So maybe he wasn't a regular, maybe he used back entrances or I don't know, if he was a vampire couldn't he just compel everyone to forget the saw him?" _Or maybe I just wasn't stupid enough to be seen._

"So you believe it is a vampire now?"

"I never said he wasn't."

"_She_."

"Right, okay, explain the woman theory to me." He waves a flippant hand as if to say get on with it, though he genuinely is curious.

"Well the deaths were often times weeks if not months apart, sure there were other vampiric killings in the streets but they believed that to be another killer."

"So?"

"So a woman could pose as another prostitute, get settled in for a month or so then pounce. The other girls would have no reason not to trust her, and she could quit her job after the death with little to no suspicion, claiming to quit out of trauma."

"Surely someone would notice the pattern."

"Why would they, you said it yourself, they were looking for a man."

"Okay, I guess that's as good a theory as any, " he pauses, "you seem to know a lot about these killings."

"Oh, well it's my job, we give vampire tours and talks, we don't have any booked for today but usually we have a good 20 people booked in for a single tour. We even lead vampire hunting expeditions."

"You hunt them?" He grimaces, eyes catching back on the shelf beside him with the cleanly carved stake.

"Well no, it's all a novelty really, we sell hunting kits with weapons, holy water and crosses but we'll never find one."

"I thought you believed?"

"Oh I do, I just don't think they are stupid enough to let themselves get caught by a bunch of tourists wielding a spikey piece of wood."

Shane lets out a surprised laugh, "fair enough."

"I don't think I'd try kill one anyway if I ever found one." She continues, talking mostly to herself.

Shane makes a questioning noise.

"Well they are wonderful creatures, aren't they? I'd probably try make friends with the killer if I ever met them."

"Don't you mean her?"

"Touché."

Shane grins a crooked grin, almost wants to tell her the truth, just to see her reaction. Just to see what she'd really do, but that stake is a little too close for his liking and he's had one too many run-ins with self-proclaimed vampire slayers already on this trip.

"Anyway, wasn't I supposed to help you find something?"

Shane sighs, takes one last glance around him but he already knows nothing here is right.

He already knows where he's going to go to find exactly what he wants to give Ryan. He already knows exactly what it is. He's had a lot of time to think, during their talk.

"That's alright, I think I got everything I needed, thank you though." He smiles, a genuine smile before he slips out the door.

He'll have to be quick, the crew are going to start wondering where he is soon, but he'll make a quick run across the town, it's worth it, his destination is relatively close to the hotel anyway.

\--------

He jogs through the self-storage facility, sneaking past the security guard sleeping in the main office at the front, praying he doesn't wake up and see him on the monitors. There are rows and rows of storage units, blue-painted congregated metal shutters stood in still lines.

He's got two issues. One, he doesn't remember which one is his, and two, he doesn't have his key. He lost that around a decade ago.

So he'll open them all, one by one, he'll tear the padlocks from their place holding the shutters closed tight and he'll look in every one. It'll only take a glance, he'll know his when he sees it.

He's on shutter No. 137 when he finally recognises the content, and he's thankful for all the extra energy he had after last nights activities with Emery, because he isn't even panting. His arm doesn't ache from the strain.

He knows it's his because there's an 18th century soviet military uniform on a mannequin to the left, officers hat sat at a jaunty angle atop its plastic skull.

He exhales slowly, walking over to it and running the tips of his fingers along the brass and silver badges pinned to the breast. He doesn't know why he's feeling so sentimental, he doesn't even know why he kept the thing. He didn't have a choice when he was drafted for that war in Russia, he didn't believe what he was fighting for, he died in that war.

Except he knows exactly why he kept it, because he came back to life in that war, because he met his first true love during that war, because if he hadn't gotten his bloodlust out on the battlefield during that war hundreds more innocent people would be dead. Sure, the other soldiers may have been innocent too, but at least they were killed with purpose. (He'll tell himself that, and pretend to forget all the innocent women he tore apart in the villages they passed while travelling.)

That doesn't matter, none of that matters, he needs to stop getting in his head about it and find what he came here for. A gift, the perfect gift, one that really means something.

Just as he steps out of the storage unit, the gift safely in the pocket of his camel jacket, he hears the text alert ring out on his phone and he pulls it out.

_Teej: hey Shane, do you kind shooting some more footage for the vampire video while we are here? Just stock footage we can put in as filler since the night ended early._

_Shane: Sure, I'll meet you in front of the hotel in 30 mins?_

_Teej: sounds good._

_Teej: also can you get Ryan? He's not answering my texts._

_Shane: sure thing boss 🤙_

_Teej: I'm blocking you for your use of emojis_

_Shane: love you too king 🤠👑_

_Teej: seriously, why a cowboy?_

_Shane: he's just chillin' 🤠🤠🤠_

_>>not delivered_

_Shane: have you actually blocked me?_

_>>not delivered_

_Shane: oh :(_

_>>_ _not delivered_

Shane makes it back to the hotel in roughly twenty minutes and he steels himself before knocking on <strike>Ryan's</strike> their door. There's a good period of time (30 seconds) where he thinks Ryan won't answer but then the door is swung open and Ryan is stood there in front of him with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, water dripping down his chest.

"Oh." Is all Shane can manage.

"What do you want?" Ryan grunts, stepping aside to let Shane in nevertheless. _Wonderful, he's in a great mood!_

"I thought we should talk before we go out to shoot more footage."

"I don't know why you'd think that, " Ryan grumbles, back turned to Shane as he's bent over, rummaging through his suitcase for clothes, and isn't that a sight?

Shane sighs, "come on Ry, I'm here to apologise, cut me some slack yeah?"

Ryan stares at him blankly as he turns back around, clothes in hand and wordlessly walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself with a click. Well _ gówno. Shit._

Shane huffs, rubbing his face with his hand as he walks over to the bed parallel to the one with messy, wrinkled sheets and drops down onto his back, legs dangling over the edge by his knees. He lies there, hands covering his face as he waits, wondering what he could possibly say to make Ryan hear him out.

He thought this would be easy, Ryan is supposed to be open to forgiveness like he usually is when they have their little squabbles.

It occurs to Shane that maybe this is a bigger deal than all of those. Maybe this isn't about this morning, maybe it isn't even just about last night. Maybe he's been frustrated with Shane for weeks, since he found out, probably. How long has Ryan known? It feels like years now, anyway.

He'd had so many questions, he'd been so confused and what has Shane actually told him? What has Shane actually done to help him understand?

Nothing. That's what. A short, "I'm sorry, " and a shiny new gift isn't going to fix that.

The gift isn't even shiny or new.

_Kurwa, fuck, why didn't I just buy something from that boutique?_

He must miss when Ryan opens the bathroom door because suddenly he's stood over him, arms crossed over a patterned short-sleeved shirt which is almost definitely a size too small. He's got a closed off but determined look on his face when he says, "so what was this apology you were whining about?"

And _good_, Shane thinks, _he's at least gonna hear me out_, but then, despite his previous thoughts all he can manage to say is "I'm sorry," and he must not sound as sincerely heartbroken as he feels because Ryan just scoffs and looks away.

He half turns as if he's going to walk off and Shane quickly jumps up into a sitting position, grabbing his arm, "Ryan wait- I'm sorry okay? I really am, for everything, for all my cryptic bullshit, for not explaining anything last night, for being avoidant this morning, for not answering any of your questions since you found out."

"So do I get an explanation?"

"Yes! Yeah! Later I'll-" he hesitates, "I'll tell you everything after the shoot I promise, from the beginning if I have to, I'll answer all your questions. Jesus, I'll be a _better friend_ Ry just please, don't stay mad at me. I can't cope with you being mad at me and I don't want to lose you."

"Why should I believe you? How do I know you won't just start dodging questions again when I ask?"

Shane frowns briefly before his eyes light up, "because I brought a peace offering you know, as a symbol of me being less of an asshole."

Ryan looks interested now, "a peace offering?"

"Yeah, I-" he scrambles around in his pockets until he pulls it out. It's a velvet jet black box roughly the size of his palm. He holds it out like he's offering food to an orphan.

Ryan raises a brow, "what is it?" he asks as he flips it over in his palm.

"Well, you're supposed to open it."

"I know that." he glares at Shane, then down at the box like something deadly might jump out when he opens it. The hesitation stabs Shane in the chest way deeper than a stake could ever reach, _does he really think I'd give him something dangerous?_

"Nothing in there is gonna bite Ryan, it's me that does that." And that, at least, brings and honest to God snicker out of him.

"Shut up, Shane." He mutters before slowly lifting the lid of the box. When it's open, he freezes, Shane can't make sense of the expression on his face.

"If you don't like it I can find something better I just-"

"Shane, where did you get this?"

"It's-" he rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Ryan's face, "it's kind of a family heirloom."

"What is it?" Ryan asks as his hand reaches inside the box, turning the object where it sits, "is that a cross on the other side?"

"Yeah it's a medallion - St. Benedicts - it was my mother's, it's like a Christian protection amulet of sorts." He waves his arms to somehow gesticulate what he's saying, feeling far too awkward, _is it too much? Is it not enough?_ "Need something to keep you safe from all those ghouls, right?" He tries for lighthearted but his voice comes out stunted and weak, more emotional than he'd like, Ryan must pick up on it because he looks up from the pendant instantly.

He's still got that look on his face that Shane can't decipher.

"Why would you give this to me?" He asks curiously, not accusatory.

"So you can wear it, for protection."

"Shane I can't wear this, what if I lose it? Or break it? Or drop it down the toilet and accidentally flush?"

Shane scoffs, though Ryan sounds genuinely considered by all those possibilities equally, "I think it'll be fine Ryan." 

"But-"

"And if you lose it I'll buy you a new one, one that's less faded, they paint them with colour now, red and blue and-"

"Shane, stop this is- how old is this?"

"Well, it's been in my family for 250- no 260 years? 255 maybe?"

"Jesus."

"Like I said if you don't want it..."

"No I do, just, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure Ry, now put it on, do you need some help?"

"Wait don't crosses hurt you?"

"As long as you have the side with the cross pressed to your chest I'll be fine, and you can keep it under your shirt. It doesn't really hurt anyway, it's just a phobia of mine."

Ryan opens his mouth to question it.

"Later remember?" Shane smiles hopefully as he stands.

"Okay, sure, later."

He grins, taking the chain out of the box and stepping closer to Ryan. He unclasps the chain with nifty fingers, raising it around either side of Ryan's neck only to lean his head over his shoulder to watch so he can reclasp it.

He doesn't notice how close they are until he pulls back to look at his work. He doesn't notice the heavy tension in the air until he meets Ryan's eyes. It feels like something, more than something and he's considering leaning in when there's a knock at the door.

Shane knows it's TJ, realises they are probably late so he goes to pull back and get the door but then Ryan is the one grabbing his arm and keeping him from moving away.

Shane gives him a questioning look but as he meets Ryan's eyes he sees a vulnerability he rarely shows and any protest Shane had dies on his tongue.

Ryan looks down at his shoes as he mumbles, "if we are talking later does that mean you'll say in here with me tonight?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Please."

And that? That feels like something too, but as Ryan let's go of his arm and walks to the door Shane struggles to figure out exactly what.

They meet up with TJ, Mark and Emery to shoot some random footage outside the building, (as close as they are willing to get) some wide shots, scenery and street views now it's light out. They try banter in the car on the way that can be slipped into the beginning of the video but it all seems little too forced when making jokes feels like something they _have_ to do. It doesn't play right with the tone of the video, and countless, artistic shots of the building will only go so far.

Shane is ready to quit, to go back to the hotel and curl up in a ball under the spray of a too-hot shower, pray Ryan takes mercy on him and leaves the interrogation for another day. _Oh God, as soon as this is over I have to tell him._

And then a stroke of genius hits, some may say he's just trying to prolong this trip to avoid talking to Ryan, he'd disagree. It's complete and utter genius, he's met someone today who has more theories about the case than them.

So he tells them about Marita, the kind shop owner with a passion for all things vampires. The fans will love her, she's got that sort of creepy, excitable energy of someone who knows something you don't. It works well with the whole mysterious, investigatory vibes of the show.

"She does vampire tours?" Ryan scrunches up his nose, sceptical, which doesn't suit him at all.

"Right! So she knows the history of vampires in the city, it'd be a great interview for the video." Shane grins, hoping he doesn't oversell his enthusiasm.

"Okay, " TJ pipes up, exasperated, "if you really think she'll be good for the video we'll ask if she can spare time for an interview."

And so they go to the quirky little occult shop selling vampire memorabilia and Marita agrees to do an interview. They don't learn much new information but it's fun, she discusses her "the killer is a woman, stop with the heteronormative bullshit" theory and they are pretty sure that'll go down well with their audience.

It's after the interview, when Shane is still in the shop, arguing with Marita over some folklore when Emery approaches him. He's sliding one of the cameras into the boot of the rental car and almost drops it on his toes when he sees a figure appear beside him in his peripheral.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Hardly." Is that a common joke for vampires? Because Ryan is pretty sure Shane has already made it twice in as many weeks and it's getting a little grating.

"What do you want?" 

"What's that?" Emery nods vaguely toward Ryan's torso, which is real helpful. Thanks, Emery.

"What's what?"

"That chain."

"Why does it matter?" He frowns.

"I'm just trying to make conversation Ryan." _Bullshit. _

Only because he thinks it might make him jealous he states, "it's a gift, from Shane."

"I thought so." Emery frowns in a mirror of Ryan's crumpled browns, but he doesn't look jealous.

"Yeah exactly so- wait what?"

"Can I see it?"

"Why?"

"I'm curious."

Ryan shrugs, feels like he's missing something but he pulls the medallion out from where it was hidden behind his shirt, "it's for protection, from demons and ghosts and stuff, " he states, as though he feels like he owes an explanation as he twirls the medallion with his thumb and forefinger on the chain.

"Is that all it's protection from?" Emery asks, eyeing the piece of jewellery with an intense look.

"What do you mean?"

"Turn it around for me- like stop twirling it, hold it still so I can see the back?"

Ryan considered telling him to fuck off, but curiosity will always get the better of him so he flips the medallion and holds it as steady as he can manage, revealing the side with the cross.

"I don't think it's demons he's trying to protect you from Ryan."

It clicks for Ryan as he looks down at the cross, he doesn't know why he didn't consider it before "he's protecting me from himself."

"Well that or..."

"Or what?"

"I think it was his mothers."

"It was, he said it was."

"She- well, everyone he gets close to Ryan, they end up hurt one way or another. Let's just say that necklace is one hell of a reminder."

"What?"

"He gave me a cross too," He pulls out his own chain from under his shirt, revealing the black ornate symbol that, yeah now he looks at it, does look a lot like a cross, Ryan thinks he remembers catching a glimpse of under his t-shirt the first day they met. It doesn't seem nearly as old as Ryan's, honestly, it looks a little like something you'd but from a shop like the one they were just in, "I was still human when he gave it to me."

"I- I don't get it."

"Oh come on Ryan, you're smart."

It only occurs to Ryan later that night on the way back to the hotel that it's a reminder to not get too close, because Shane thinks Ryan might get hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the [necklace](https://imgur.com/Fexkrgf) that Shane gifts to Ryan. The quality dropped when I uploaded it and I don't know how to fix that but you an still make everything out so it's fine. Probably.


	20. Każdy ma swój krzyż do zniesienia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Każdy ma swój krzyż do zniesienia:  
(Polish;)  
\- Everybody has their own cross to bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should check out Golden4278 and her incredible writing right now, specifically this masterpiece: [Why Don't You Get Up And Make Me?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453822/chapters/53650249)

Ryan is on him like a hawk the second the hotel door swings shut. Shane would like to maybe get the chance to breathe before they have this discussion but apparently, he's not allowed. He doesn't need to breathe anyway really because - _vampire_ \- but the point is, Ryan spoke before the automatic lights of the room had managed to flicker to life and he should maybe chill a little.

"So, talk." Ryan states it like it's just that easy, arms crossed over his chest in a way that's both intimidating and kind of hot. Seriously, _how are they that big?_ It's criminal and Shane doesn't consider it fair that he has to try to think with those arms staring at him like that.

"What do you want to know?" Shane settles for and he knows answering a question with a question is like deflection 101 but he doesn't know where to start, there's probably a lot he needs to say, too much.

He doesn't like the weird positioning they've found themselves in, both stood a few paces apart in a room, Ryan in his defensive stance and he himself just looking lost. So he takes a step toward his bed and sits down. He might as well be comfortable for the train wreck he's sure is about to occur.

Ryan remains standing. _Great, now it's even more awkward._

It's clear he wasn't prepared for Shane throwing it back to him because there's a brief moment where he freezes up like his brain is buffering. Huh. 

Then he comes back online full pelt - seriously Shane thinks he might get whiplash trying to keep up with Ryan if this is how this conversation is going to go - as he tugs the chain off from around his neck, holding it out in front of him at a full arm's length, "why did you give me this?" he asks accusatorily.

Shane opens his mouth to speak, then closes it - like when you push open a wrought iron gate on a windy day and it swings shut as soon as you let go, not giving you the chance to walk through it - his eyebrows curve inward above squinted eyes, _that's what he chose to ask?_

"I told you didn't I? It's for protection." He answers like he's not sure himself because it feels like a trick question somehow. Like Ryan is trying to catch him out on a lie he isn't aware he's told.

"From demons, or from yourself?"

That, again, gives Shane pause, "what?" Is all he can manage, incredulously, because why would he think that?

"That's not an answer."

"Well no but why would you- why would you even _think_ that Ryan?"

"It's a cross, isn't it? And you have you're weird, mysterious cross phobia." He waves a hand toward Shane as if he can point out where the phobia originates, which technically he probably could, but he doesn't know that."It's not a crazy conclusion to jump to Shane."

"No you're right I guess that makes sense," Shane frowns because it kind of does, even if Shane didn't intend for it to be seen that way.

"So it is to protect me from you then?"

Shane stands up, he has the urge to start pacing but he resists. He's just feeling too antsy to just sit there, with Ryan staring at him so intently from across the room.

"No! Or...yes? Not really, subconsciously maybe?" Shane grimaces at the jumble of words that leave his mouth.

"Is there another reason then? You said it was your mother's, right?" Ryan pushes.

"Yeah, father's really, I suppose, he left it to her when he went to war but she never wore it," he shakes his head, looking off into a corner of the room like he's trying to remember. _This is a start_, he thinks,_ I can tell Ryan this_.

"She used to think if she wore it every day it would be too faded or dirty that by the time he got back from war he wouldn't want it back. She didn't think it was fair to ruin it like that because it was his, " he steps toward the necklace like he doesn't realise he's doing it, taking slow paces toward Ryan until he's in front of the thing, just staring at it.

"I told her to just put it on one night, go to church, _nie bądź głupi chłopcze_, she said. _Don't be stupid boy, it'll stay in that box until your father comes home_, " he scoffs at the memory as he stares down at the medallion, subconsciously grateful that Ryan hadn't pointed the side with the cross toward him.

"He wasn't coming back Ry, the last letter he'd sent was two years before that argument. I mean going to war with Russia was practically a death sentence for all the men in the village, we were lucky he lasted a week, everyone in the village knew it. Not her though, she was convinced he was coming home, never stopped talking about it." His hand comes to curl around the pendant, but he pulls it back as his fingers tingle at the sensation of the cross on the other side. He knows it's just psychological, that it's the thought of the cross that's causing a reaction, that it can't hurt him.

Knowing that doesn't help though, because he still can't help but react. Apparently, phobias deep-rooted in childhood trauma aren't that easy to wish away, not as easy to wish away as the $20,000 he spent on therapy._ (And for what, Dr Jamieson? What was I paying you for? Because nothing has changed.)_

"Shane-"

"I don't remember him at all. I was seven when he left and I couldn't tell you what he looked like, the colour of his eyes or the shape of his nose. The medallion isn't some sinister warning Ryan, I stole it the night I left Poland, took it out of it's carved wood box where it would be left and forgotten otherwise. My mother couldn't wear it, and father certainly wouldn't miss it. It was all I had left of back then."

"Jesus." Ryan huffs, not sure what to add, doesn't think he needs to add anything because Shane seems like he's one a role and, quite frankly, this is the most open Ryan has ever seen him, so he'll stand and listen. 

"It's all I have left of my human life, of a family I can't even remember. You're that for me now Ry. You are my family, for as long as you're willing to be, so it's yours. It's your damn necklace because at least you'll wear it, there isn't some ulterior motive behind giving it to you."

Ryan doesn't know what to say, there's this big well of emotion in him the size of Jupiter and he isn't sure what he should do with it, so he just does what he thinks is right.

He puts the necklace back on and then looks Shane in the eye as he promises, "I'll be your family for as long as you'll let me, " and he thinks he sees something inside Shane break as he stares back with a heart-shattering look.

There's a delicate silence surrounding them that Ryan doesn't want to break. He'd rather wallow in it, in the way it sinks under his skin and makes his hairs stand on end. It feels like they're on the edge of a precipice, neither of them knowing what to do next. It's unexplored territory for both of them and Ryan finds himself hoping that Shane wants to explore it just as much as he does.

Then Shane, because he claims to be nothing more than a coward who isn't ready for something that feels this new or raw asks, "you wanted to know about the mysterious bullshit cross phobia right?"

And any of that unidentifiable energy radiating between them dispersed like Ryan had shot it out the window with his handy Holy Water Gun™, except it was Shane who shot it out the window with his big dumb mouth that doesn't know when to stop moving. _Idiot_. His mind heckles him, and he's really in no position to disagree.

"Right, yeah, the cross thing, what's the deal with that?" Ryan asks, instead of trying to salvage whatever Shane has just ruined, because the moment is gone and it wasn't their first, not really. They both know it won't be their last.

Now Shane realises the mistake he's made because now he has to actually explain his phobia. If he'd just shut up maybe Ryan would've forgotten to ask, but no.

Now he's asking. _Kurwa. Fuck._

He remembers, at once why he's been holding this off, why he avoided this talk for so long.

"Shane?"

He remembers the burning, agonising pain, he remembers begging, he remembers her words, _"to nie jest mój syn" this is not my son. _He swallows hard, taking a step back, unaware of the way he reaches up to clutch his chest until he feels the cotton of his jumper against his palm.

_There are so many smells, he doesn't know which one to focus on. The damp of the rain outside, the sting of sacramental wine spilt, the choking tinge of burnt flesh. It's all too much, overwhelming his senses in a way that might drive him insane if the pain doesn't first._

Ryan watches him with concern, confusion in the middle of the hotel room. He looks like he's not fully there, not fully in the present, so to speak. He wonders what Shane could possibly be thinking, or remembering that is having such an effect on him.

_"mamo, nie, proszę" mama, no please, "proszę nie", please no._

He staggers backwards, vaguely in the direction of his bed, he doesn't imagine he can keep standing for much longer with the way his legs feel like they are about to buckle.

_The subtle pain of grazed skin along the back of his legs and palms from being dragged along the cobble feel like nothing now, entirely drowned out by some greater pain. A pain that's feels like so much that he's worried he'll never feel again. He's not sure he'd want to, if he survives, not if there's a chance he has to feel anything like this ever again._

"Shane, are you alright?" Ryan asks, still not moving, because he's not sure what he should do. All he did was ask a question, a question Shane practically pushed on him, so what is going on?

"Yeah-" he clears his throat, "yeah I'm fine I just- I need to sit down, " and he does, the backs of his legs hit the bed frame and he drops.

Ryan steps toward him, nervously, leaving a foot between them because he might want space, he could need space. Ryan didn't realise that this could be such a big deal for Shane, didn't realise how affected he might really be. He feels like a dick now, for the way he's acted, for the way he's questioned him since the day he found out but it's not like he could've known. Not really. He still doesn't know but he feels like, somehow, he's getting an idea.

"You don't have to tell me, not today if it's too much."

"No I want to, I want to, Ryan." Shane insists, it sounds a lot like he's trying to convince himself more than anything. 

"Okay, okay," Ryan concedes as he leans over to sit at the edge of his own bed so they are both facing the gap between them. A gap just large enough to fit a nightstand but short enough that he could reach over and rest a hand on Shane's knee or shoulder without bending much. Small enough that he could move his foot a couple of centimetres and the toes of their matching boots would be pressed together. He doesn't.

And so Shane explains it all. He tells him how everyone in their little village on the border of Poland thought he was different, because of his height, and his sleepwalking. He tells him there was more to it than that, that he thinks it has something to do with how smart he was, how he read books instead of playing on the streets and how he really never was good with emotions, for the amount they joke about that now.

It might be partly because he stole bread from the church once. After all, he was starving, and they didn't have much money after his father left, what else was he to do? In all honesty, he tells him he's not sure he'll ever really completely understand it, why they were so convinced he was something _other._ Sure, a lot of things about him made him different, but different enough to justify what they did to him? No, though he's not sure anything short of him actually being possessed could justify that, and that's impossible because demons aren't real. 

He recalls how his mother dragged him to that little church that night, in the cold and the rain.

He recollects the too-tight rope holding him down and the already bloodied cloth forced in his mouth to drown out his screams. He's always wondered how many people suffered as he did, wondered who's dried blood it was on that cloth.

He explains mumbles of a prayer he can't remember, a prayer he probably didn't know back then, and a sudden pain so hot and so fast he wouldn't have been capable of screaming even if the gag was removed.

And then describes the torture afterwards, some sick and twisted proof of what he is, what he could be. Holy water and salt and whatever else because he's a demon, he must be! Look at him wince! Right?

After that, in a choked voice, he explains waking up in his bed - or a least what he had considered a bed, back then - he explains the way she wouldn't even look at him, couldn't acknowledge the trembling of her own son's legs as he stood.

"I'd never felt anger like it, and I haven't since, I just knew she had to be punished. Because that's what happens when someone commits a sin so cruel right? They are punished like I was." He takes a deep breath, looks down at his hands, the way they sit palm up and trembling on his lap, like he doesn't know where to put them, "so I found a knife - she didn't look at me, didn't try to move, but she must've seen the knife in my hand, she must've known what was coming."

"Oh God, Shane-"

"I think I wanted her to fight back, to scream, I wanted some indication that she was suffering just as much as me but she just fucking sat there and let me do it. Why didn't she fight back Ry? Why didn't she try to stop me?"

"Shane, what did you do?" He knows, he already knows, Shane can see it in his eyes when he glances up.

"I killed her. Stabbed her, I don't remember how many times, I just remember seeing all the blood and the way her body dropped limp when I let her go. It's funny isn't it, I can picture the way her body dropped to the floor as she died, but I can't picture her face at all."

"Holy fuck," Ryan says, because nothing else he wants to say seems to come out.

"_Jesteś chory Miko, you are sick Miko,_ that's what she used to say to me, _coś jest z tobą nie tak, something is wrong with you_, " he shakes his head, "maybe she was right."

"She wasn't Shane, don't say that."

"I don't protect people from me because I'm a vampire Ryan, I protect people from me because if I could murder my only remaining family at thirteen, imagine what I could do to you."

It's not a threat, it's a statement, an _'I want you to know I could kill you right now without a second thought,'_ but Ryan knows that isn't true. Maybe it makes him stupid, not to be scared after what he's just been told, but how could he be?

It can't be true, because Shane is the one who makes him feel safe, and protected and all warm and fuzzy inside. It can't be, because Shane looks like he's nearly in tears from thinking about killing the same woman who willingly stood by and watched him get tortured, so imagine how much of a mess he'd be at the thought of actually harming Ryan. 

Shane isn't a killer, not really, he can't be, he doesn't have it in him. If he did back then it can't be there in him anymore. And if it still is, Ryan doesn't feel nearly as threatened as he should.

Pretty much all he feels right now is a desperate, building urge to pull Shane into a bone-crushing hug and to tell him that he's safe now. That it's okay, because he's got a new family, a better one and Ryan wouldn't ever stand by and let him get hurt. Never.

So that's exactly what he does, he stands, latches onto Shane and he squeezes, face buried into his hair as Shane freezes, stock still in shock, sat awkwardly. His hands are probably hovering somewhere awkwardly over Ryan's back and the thought would make him laugh if he wasn't so close to sobbing.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry you ever had to go through that and I'm sorry that I pushed you to tell me- I had no idea, Shane. It's so awful, " because it is, and now Ryan's over the initial shock he's pissed, "who would do that to a kid? How messed up do you have to be to hurt a child like that because he's different?"

He squeezed tighter, clings to Shane like he's scared to let go because he is. He's scared that Shane doesn't know how much he loves him, how much he cares, how badly be wants to be the family he never had, how badly he wants to do that for him no matter what it entails.

He wants to tell Shane that he could've murdered the pope and Ryan would still be here hugging him because he knows this Shane sat right here with him right now wouldn't hurt a fly. He knows his Shane couldn't hurt anyone.

Finally, Shane responds to the hug, spreading his legs to make more space for Ryan as his arms wrap around his waist and he drops his head to his chest.

"You're not mad?" Shane mumbles like a whisper, knotting his hands into the back of Ryan's shirt.

"At you?" Ryan asks as he threads a hand in Shane's hair and lifts his head to look up across the room, "no, why would I be?"

"I killed someone," Shane mutters and Ryan barely catches the way he sniffles as he says it.

Ryan doesn't want to say she deserved it but honestly, he thinks she probably did, "you were a kid Shane, and we both know you'd never do anything like that now."

"She's not the only person I've killed Ryan."

"I don't care."

"Ryan-"

"No Shane, I don't care, because I trust you, and I trust that you've changed."

"You barely even really know me, how could you know what I'm capable of?"

"Everyone is capable of doing bad things, Shane."

"But I-"

"No, shut up, " Ryan pulls back to kneel, so he's still close to Shane but he can look him in the eyes and not have to bend awkwardly, "look at me."

Shane sniffles, rubbing his nose and nodding as he looks down at Ryan.

"Tell me, honestly, have you taken a life since you became Shane Alexander Madej, the quirky, stupid man from Schaumburg Illinois?"

Shane frowns, looks away and shakes his head. Then because he knows the isn't good enough he looks down at Ryan, playing with his hands as he mutters, "no, no I haven't but-"

"No, no buts, you're telling me - that in this lifetime, as the man I know and love - you haven't killed anyone, and Shane that's good enough for me."

"Ry-"

"Stop, okay? Anyone you've hurt in your past is just that Shane, in the past, when you were a different man living a different life, you've changed, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, there, I'm not mad at you Shane. I'm proud of you for dealing with all that life has thrown at you and still managing to come out the other end a better man."

Shane doesn't believe anything Ryan is saying, not one bit. He knows to say all the bad things he's done were in another lifetime is no excuse, but Ryan seems to believe it. So, for Ryan, he'll pretend to believe it too.

He'll pretend Ryan would still he kneeling down in front of him, staring at his hand like he wants to take it if he knew about all those soldiers in Russia, about all those women in New Orleans and everyone in between.

He'll pretend Ryan would still be comforting him if he knew that some days, Shane desperately wishes he never became Shane Alexander Madej, model citizen to the millions that watch him through screens every day. Because he can't kill as Shane, the risk is too high, but sometimes, he really really fucking wants to. Even if the urge makes him feel sick inside himself because that's who he is, what he is.

He doesn't think anything will change that, let alone a new name and social security number, he's a killer. It's his nature really, he can't help it, or so he believes.

He hears Ryan sigh as he starts to stand up, "come on man, move over, let's watch a movie or something, I'm done with serious talks for the night."

So Shane moves over to make space for Ryan on the bed and they lay side by side watching some poor remake of Frankenstein on the horror channel instead of discussing all the things they probably should.

Every so often, one of them comments on the poor acting or the ambitious cinematography and it's almost normal. Or at least, it would be, if Shane didn't catch the way Ryan's gaze keeps dropping to his chest when he thinks Shane is focused in the movie. Shane isn't surprised, pretending everything is normal and just watching a movie is asking a lot for Ryan, even if it was technically Ryan who asked.

It's just, Ryan can't help but wonder what the scar looks like, or if it's even still there. He can't help but question how in all their years of friendship Shane has never taken a shirt off in front of him and how he's never questioned it before how.

Maybe he should've noticed it sooner, like when Shane made some bullshit excuse to get out of taking off his shirt for that test friends video where they were supposed to be doing CrossFit. Or like when Shane was suddenly sick the day they were supposed to get snake massages and Shane was supposed to have a snake on his bareback and everyone just accepted it.

It should have bothered him back then and the fact that it didn't is bothering him now. How many other clues did he miss?

"Jesus Ryan, if you want to look at it you can just ask, you know?"

"I erm-" Ryan's face turns red, embarrassed at getting caught out, "it felt rude to ask, " like staring isn't also rude, but it kind of would be awkward to ask.

Shane sighs, muting the tv and turning to Ryan, back pressed against the headboard, "do you want to? To see it?"

"Yeah- well, if you don't mind I mean-"

Shane smiles, laughing softly, but it's clear he's uncomfortable as Ryan comes up to his knees beside him and turns to face Shane better.

"It's fine if you don't want to show me, Shane."

Shane looks at him for a second, before grabbing the hem of his jumper and tugging it off over his head, tossing it across the floor before he can rethink his decision. Getting topless in front of Ryan in bed should feel weirder than it does, especially with the predetermined goal being solely so Ryan can look at what's underneath.

Right now it just feels slightly awkward, he feels shy, embarrassed, but he trusts Ryan with this, he does.

Ryan tries and fails not to gawk wide-eyed at the pink-white scarring along a good third of Shane's chest, the jagged edge of an implement Ryan thought of as something for protection, a symbol of victory over sin. How can something holy be used to hurt someone so good, so pure, so young?

He doesn't realise he's crying until a single salty tear trails along his quivering lip, and he knows he isn't speaking, he can't think of anything to say. But how can he say anything right now? What's the right thing to say in this situation? How is Shane not crying? How has he kept this hidden for so long?

Shane's sat there looking nervous, expectant and Ryan just can't find it in him to say anything. to do anything. He doesn't know if there is anything he can say. 

Not until he catches the way Shane's voice crackles and breaks as he whispers, "Ry...", timid like he's scared he'll break whatever spell Ryan is under, and well, he does.

His hand is halfway to Shane's chest before he knows what he's doing and he janks it back, spluttering an abrupt "sorry!" that sounds too harsh in the quiet room. 

Shane watches as he looks down at his hand like it's been burnt, _oh._

"Ry, it's fine, if you want to-" he swallows, "you can, it's fine."

Ryan looks up at him now, face open and emotive like he's scared he'll get scolded. Like he doesn't believe what he's being told. But Shane can tell he wants to touch, so Shane will let him, even if the thought of being touched there is physically repulsive, even after all this time.

Once Ryan has convinced himself that he's allowed - assured himself that it's not that weird to touch Shane's chest given the circumstances - he reaches forward, wishing his hand would just stop shaking as his fingers fan out and finally the tip of his middle finger hits flesh.

The first thing he notices is that Shane is warm, the second thing he notices is that it doesn't feel as rough as he expected, it just feels dense, almost, less squishy and soft than the skin of Shane's arms that he's felt before. It doesn't feel bad though, just different. 

The outline of the cross is wrinkled yet pulled taut against his skin, it's slightly pink at those jagged edges, and he expects the skin there to be harsh and dry, but honestly, it just feels like running your fingers over the lines of your palm. It's a smooth white in nearer the centre, where he'd first dared to touch, it feels weird to sit there and study something on Shane's skin, but he wants to. He wants to study all the freckles around it too, though he avoids looking at Shane's nipples as much as possible because now he's thinking about it and it feels weird.

He has a lot of questions, like: _if you got this scar at thirteen, shouldn't it be tiny now?_ Surely Shane's body has grown a lot since then, yet it still maps out a large chunk of skin in the centre of his chest. Other questions include:_ if you heal so fast as a vampire, why hasn't this healed?_ But he feels like it's rude to bombard Shane with questions right now. Even if that is what he had planned for tonight. They also feel like questions he could probably figure out the answers to himself. 

Ryan has this unexpected, desperate urge to lean forward and kiss along Shane's chest, to press his lips to the scarred tissue there, attempt to show him how beautiful Ryan thinks he is, but that might be a little much, so he resists.

Instead, he runs his fingers down the length of the cross, then a little lower like he can't help himself as he watches Shane's stomach turn concave in response to the suggestion of a touch. He picks up on the way Shane's unneeded breath catches in his throat at the almost-action. It makes his heart speed up.

Maybe he's being too gentle, treating Shane like he's fragile because Shane makes an obvious noise of frustration before wrapping his hand around Ryan's wrist and bringing his hand up to rest flat against the span of his chest, pressing down harder than Ryan would've been willing to himself.

Ryan flexes his fingers against the scar tissue there, not quite sure where to go from here, what to do. The problem is that there's so much he wants to do, but he's not sure if he's allowed to do any of it. Kissing Shane right now, for example, feels somewhat inappropriate - but he wants to so badly it hurts.

He also has the urge to dig his nails into Shane's chest, claw it open and crawl inside because even sat here touching him he doesn't feel close enough, he doesn't think anything will ever be enough and he doesn't know how to describe it. This longing desperation to be a part of Shane, for Shane to be a part of him that's been burning him up inside for weeks.

It's not just wanting to kiss him, or hug him, or comfort him, it isn't about sex or physical proximity at all it's just this _need_. This need for Shane and just Shane, only Shane, all of him. It's there in the jealousy he feels when he sees Shane talking to other people - like Emery - it's there when Shane smiles or laughs or breathes. It makes him want Shane to sink his fangs into him, it makes him want to sink his teeth into Shane.

"Ryan?" Shane speaks up because they've both been silent for a little too long.

"Mmm?" Ryan hums, half distracted by his thoughts.

"You okay?"

And Ryan doesn't quite catch that, and he couldn't tell you why he says what he does next, just that he means it, with all his heart, "I love you."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I love you too, Ry, you know that."

That's just it though, isn't it? Ryan doesn't know that, because that's not what he means. Shane is thinking in the pace of platonic love, best friend love, the first kind of love Ryan ever felt for Shane, before it became something more. It's an out, he knows it is, and he could take it, he probably should, so he does. 

He does right up until they both get ready for bed, they curl back up together in the same bed instead of getting into their own respective beds like they probably should without even discussing it and it's something Ryan can't ignore. So after Shane flickers off the reading lamp they'd left on to crawl into bed after they are both settled and comfortable Ryan mumbles, "I didn't mean it like that," because it's easy to admit in the dark, where he doesn't have to see Shane's reaction - Shane having his back turned to him admittedly also helps.

Shane must have been thinking about it too, or at least known Ryan was thinking about it somehow because he doesn't miss a beat before saying, "I know Ry," and it makes Ryan frown.

If he knew, why did he say it back? Are they even talking about the same thing? Maybe Shane thinks Ryan is worried that Shane misinterpreted the 'I love you' in a romantic way instead of platonic when it's actually the other way around, oh god, what if-

"Stop thinking so hard Ry."

"I thought you said you're not the type of vampire that can read minds."

Shane snorts a sleepy kind of half-laugh into his pillow as he mumbles, "'m not, I've jus' developed a sixth sense for determining when you're overthinking from working with you for so long."

"well your sixth sense is broken because I'm thinking a regular amount, thank you very much."

Shane sighs into his pillow before rolling over to face Ryan and Ryan's eyes have adjusted enough to he dark that he can just about make out the slope of Shane's nose from the rest of his silhouette.

"I love you too Ryan," Shane states because half because it might be the only way to get Ryan to shut up and go to sleep and half because he really means it, "in a gay way," he adds, just in case Ryan is somehow still confused.

"Oh."

"Mhm, g'night Ry," Shane hums as he nuzzles into his pillow.

"Wait, don't go to sleep yet,"

"_Ryan._"

"I just, can I- can we-"

Shane huffs then opens one eye to look at Ryan, and because he's got a pretty good idea of what Ryan is about to ask he shuffles closer and tugs Ryan into his chest, hooking their legs together and fixing an arm across his waist. He places a kiss on the top of his head before murmuring, "now shut up and go to sleep, or I will eat you."

Ryan snorts and presses himself closer, smushing his face into the middle of his chest and pressing a kiss to what he hopes is the centre of his scar before slipping into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I earnt the slow burn tag yet?
> 
> I wonder why these chapters take so long to update when my plan for this chapter was literally just, "The Talk™" aha I hate myself.
> 
> Also, big thank you to xoimadivaox for motivating me to write this chapter, I couldn't have done it without you <3


	21. Jego wyczerpanie jest do szpiku kości

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jego wyczerpanie jest do szpiku kości:  
(Polish;)  
\- his exhaustion is to the bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, aha, this fic was only meant to be like 50k what happened?
> 
> Secondly, I hope you're all doing okay, there's a lot going on in the world right now and it's more important now than ever to remember to always put yourself and your mental health first. Stay safe!

They don't get time to talk much in the morning. TJ barges in their room while Ryan is in the shower and eyes the beds like he suspects something, but doesn't say much to Shane other than that they need to be in front of the building in ten minutes or they'll be late to the airport.

("We can't miss this flight, we are already behind on schedule, Shane, " he'd insisted, and Shane had smiled reassuringly.

"We won't be late man, don't worry, when have I ever let you down?")

To his credit, they really weren't late, he'd rushed Ryan out of the shower and they'd been packing their bags into the rental car with time to spare.

The drive to the airport was quiet, everyone too tired to keep up any real conversation and the time spent at the airport after checking in was very much the same.

They had just enough time to stop at a cute little restaurant Ryan instantly forgot the name of for breakfast and then their flight was boarding and they were up again, ready to hop on the plane to LA.

Ryan would like to thank whatever higher power there may be for their flight not getting delayed.

There's a little squabble over seating when Emery insists on sitting beside Shane. Ryan _always_ sits beside Shane on a flight, it's just tradition.

Technically there are three seats in a row, and Shane _could_ just sit in the middle, but he needs more legroom than that. They specifically booked the flights so there would be a free aisle seat for that very reason. That way, Shane could sit in the middle seat, move the armrest and stretch his legs out a little across the other chair. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it was better than any other alternative.

So, naturally, Emery and Ryan argue over the window seat while Shane stands there, looking bored, frustrated and honestly like he's about to drop to the floor with exhaustion. Eventually, Shane tells Emery to suck it up and take the seat beside Mark and TJ, and he isn't given the chance to argue.

Ryan would gloat if Shane didn't look so irritable, so he settles for celebrating internally instead. Judging by the sidelong glance Shane gives him when they finally board, his internal cheering wasn't the most silent. (He's still half-convinced Shane can read his mind, even if Shane insists otherwise.)

That's where Ryan is now, staring at the clouds through the window of the plane with Shane passed out beside him, head on his shoulder and legs sticking out into the aisle. He knows it'll be an issue whenever the next flight attendant comes through but he doesn't want to wake Shane up right now, so he'll deal with that problem when he comes to it.

When Shane first fell asleep on him he thought it would be a good thing, he figured he'd have the chance to think about everything that's happened, everything he'd learnt since being in New Orleans. In reality, he's now just got a growing pool of drool on his shirt and all he can think about is the fact that Shane is sleeping.

Which now he thinks about it, sounds a little creepy, but it's <strike>completely</strike> mostly innocent.

The thing is, Shane has told him that vampires don't really _need_ to sleep, exhaustion can come about as a sign of hunger or stress but even then it's not necessary, they might just pass out without being able to help it.

Ryan knows Shane must have fed during their trip though because he was warm last night - and he was full of energy all day, and wasn't bleeding from the wounds that were there the day before. He knows that Shane was struggling with his hunger before the trip, but surely it's not affected him this much this quickly right?

And sure, Shane is probably stressed given everything that's happened, but stressed enough to pass out ten minutes into a rowdy commercial flight with a toddler kicking the back of his seat? Maybe not.

Shane had also told him, that while vampires don't need to sleep they often do it anyway to pass time, to blend in with humanity or to escape reality for a little while.

That's what Ryan thinks about as Shane snores against the now damp fabric of Ryan's t-shirt. The idea that Shane needs to escape. The idea that he _could_ be sat here talking to Ryan but instead he chooses not to because sleep is somehow better.

Shane had mentioned that some vampires hibernate, sleep through weeks, sometimes entire months without rolling out of bed, stocking up enough blood so that they don't have to go out and hunt - as Shane had put it. He'd told Ryan that he'd done it, once or twice and that the feeling of not having to wake up felt great. 

("It makes me feel like an animal or something, you know? That's what bears do, " he'd said, in explanation for why he hadn't done it often.

"Right."

"Plus, it's weird after living so long, the idea of time moving on without you, even for just a month, " he'd muttered next, in a tone that sounded alarmingly distant.)

That's what worries him. It reminds him of when he used to go to therapy and his doctor tricked him into saying that sometimes he wants to go to sleep and never wake up, thinking it was a completely normal thing to say.

_"Did you know that's classed as a suicidal thought, Mr Bergara?"_ She'd asked, and maybe Ryan had imagined it, but at the time it seemed like she'd felt smug about catching him out.

When Ryan assured her that: no it wasn't, everybody says that. It doesn't really mean anything, it's not like he really has a choice anyway, the body wakes up naturally. She'd prescribed him with antidepressants and handed him a bunch of pamphlets on how to deal with suicidal thoughts.

He's scoffed, thrown the pamphlets away without a second thought, _this is what they do_, he told himself, _they pump you full of drugs instead of providing real care,_ but not even he could deny a couple of months later, that the drugs he didn't know he needed had actually helped.

The point is, Ryan is worried because he doesn't know _why_ Shane is sleeping. He tells himself there's no need to worry, and that even if there is there's still no point; he's not going to find the answers in his head. _If you're that worried just wake him up and ask him_, is as much as his mind could provide.

So he tries to distract himself with other thoughts. Thoughts like, _what the fuck is Emery's problem?_ Seriously. Sure, he's Shane's sire or whatever, and sure they've been close for far longer than Ryan and Shane have but that doesn't give him an excuse to get in the way of their friendship. Shane likes Ryan more and that's something Emery will just have to deal with.

Unless Shane doesn't like Ryan more. Unless he spent the other night with Emery because he felt safer with him because he trusted him more - but no. There is no way that Emery could mean more to Shane than Ryan, _right?_

Ryan really doesn't know why he cares as much as he does. So what if they are close? The relationship Shane has with the two of them is different, individual, incomparable. So why does he continue to feel so jealous, so annoyed? It's clear Emery feels the same right? It's not just Ryan making something out of nothing?

_Or maybe it is._ Ryan sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hand before squeezing them shut briefly. It's just all so much, he's got all this emotion inside him, all these feelings, questions, opinions and he doesn't know what to do with them all, he doesn't know how to get them out.

How is he supposed to concentrate on one thing when there's just so much happening? And how long has everything in his life been so tightly revolving around Shane? When was the last time he thought about something that had no connection to Shane? He doesn't. He just doesn't think of anything other than him anymore.

Every second of the day it's, _fuck Shane, he doesn't tell me anything_, or, _oh God, I love him, I really love him and he knows it, he loves me back, holy shit, _or, _poor Shane, I can't believe how much he's been through, I wish he would confide in me more._

God, Ryan can't even remember the last time he called his family just to check up on them. He can't remember when his entire life became Shane, he can't remember the moment he accepted it as normal. Maybe he never did, maybe it crept up on him so slowly he didn't even realise it was happening.

The thing is, he's not sure he'd change it. Yeah, everything is chaotic and he feels like he's losing his mind _but_ he's also got Shane's head on his shoulder and the knowledge that he's going back to Shane's to crawl in bed with him without them even having to talk about it. Because that somehow feels normal too.

He runs a hand through Shane's hair just to assure himself that he really is there, and just because he can now. He looks out the window, at the gradually passing clouds just to assure himself that he isn't dreaming, that this isn't all some weird drug trip he's experiencing after being injected heroin in the streets. _That's Shane's fear, Ryan._ It would just make more sense, at this point, the whole thing - since finding out about Shane - just being some weird trip.

He's close to actually falling asleep himself when he feels Shane nuzzling against him, nose pressing against his collarbone as he turns his head and murmurs something unintelligible against Ryan's skin.

"Shane, you okay buddy?" Ryan murmurs, wondering if he woke Shane up with his overactive mind somehow and feeling mildly guilty about it, despite it being completely illogical.

As Shane lifts his head to blink blearily at Ryan all he can think is_ I wanna kiss him,_ he refrains, barely, setting instead for running his hand through Shane's hair again, pushing it off his forehead where it had slumped during his lap.

He can't help the way everything inside him seems to swoop downward toward his gut because Shane just looks so soft and innocent. He doesn't miss the way Shane's pupils dilate as he strokes his hair and it worries him less than it should that he can't tell if it's out of attraction or hunger.

It worries him a little that he doesn't care, that he's so far gone he'd happily be a walking blood bag for Shane without ever becoming more if that's what he wanted. He tries to figure out how he'd never realised how completely smitten he was before how. It's possible he's been gone for Shane since he first laid eyes on him, or maybe he's just being dramatic.

Then Shane pulls back, straightening in his seat and rolling his shoulders with a wince, and the moment is ruined. Ryan sometimes forgets that Shane is fundamentally too big for most forms of transport, if not all, and that the discomfort it causes him is very real.

"Are we nearly there yet?" Shane asks, voice worn, sleepy and half cut off by a stifled yawn.

Ryan's eyebrows furrow at the expanse of endless sky as he turns back to the window, he wishes he could say yes, "we are still an hour out man, " he says instead, because, what's lying about it going to achieve?

Shane huffs, stretching his legs out as much as he can, his back arching into the action in a way that makes him look a lot like a lethargic cat.

When he comes to the conclusion that there's no way to make his legs any less uncomfortable he leans back against his seat with a huff.

He looks over at Ryan, mouth open like he's about to speak when he glances down and catches a glimpse of the wet patch on his shirt, he visibly winces as he mumbles "yikes, that's embarrassing, sorry man."

He rubs his neck awkwardly, and Ryan finds comfort in how he stumbles over his words a little when he's tired. It's nice to see silver-tongued Shane Madej acting as awkward as everyone else, talking a little dumbly in a way that shouldn't be cute.

"Oh, that? It's fine, " Ryan grins. It's not fine, it's cooling rapidly on his skin and turning his shirt sticky like liquids do but it's entirely worth it just for him to have gotten his hands in Shane's hair.

Shane's face scrunches up, 'it's not, that's disgusting, " he says, nose wrinkled as he reaches up to wipe around his chin self-consciously, "you've got my DNA on your shirt."

Ryan lets out a surprised wheeze, face heating up, "well it wasn't disgusting until you said it like that."

Shane must realise how it sounds, because he tries to backtrack, "I'm just saying, my DNA is precious, don't try and clone me with that or something," he laughs, a little embarrassed. There should be a flush to his cheeks, Ryan thinks, but there isn't.

Ryan snorts, "what, and have to deal with two of you? I'd rather die."

Shane rolls his eyes, familiar grin crawling up his face, "you could probably sell it on the internet for a couple hundred dollars."

"What, 'sasquatch spit'? I'm sure there would be tons of buyers," Ryan states dryly.

"There would! The shaniacs are very dedicated people, I could probably make a business out of it."

Ryan grimaces, "I'm not sure dedicated is the right word for fans who would be willing to buy your drool."

"You're just jealous your little boogaras' wouldn't buy your bodily fluids."

"Bodily fluids? Good! I wouldn't want them to buy anything that comes from my body!"

Shane laughs, eyes turning to crescents of amber before his giggles are cut off into another yawn.

"Jesus man, if you need to go back to sleep you can, I'll wake you up when we land."

Shane shakes his head, rubbing idly at his face, "I'm fine, " he mumbles in a sleepy way that suggests he definitely isn't.

The rest of the flight is quiet, Shane does end up taking the offer to pass out on Ryan's shoulder and they remain that way - Ryan trying desperately not to move and disturb Shane - until they land. 

The wait at baggage claim is long and painful (as always) and no one really speaks, but that's fine because Ryan isn't really in the mood for talking. He came to a conclusion on the plane he's not sure he likes and it's all he can think about. 

He decided that, he doesn't really know Shane and that he probably never will. He figured that he can't ever know what is going on in his head, and it scares him. He realised that if he doesn't really know Shane, then how can he really love him? He can't, right? But he does, which means he risks everything he loves being a lie. There's the underlying issue, he loves the parts of Shane that he's seen, but he hasn't even seen half of him. 

So that's where he's at right now, as he tosses his luggage into the back of an Uber he's sharing with Shane. They are going back to Shane's place - without talking about it - as Ryan figured they would.

It's the little things that bug him, during that ride, the ones that should be insignificant in the face of everything else. Like how he doesn't know how many other places Shane has considered home. Like he doesn't know how many best friends Shane has had and where he falls on the scale. Like he doesn't know how many other people Shane has told he loves. There could be hundreds by now, what if it doesn't really mean to him what it once did? 

The other thought, the one that's making him feel like his heart is rotting alive inside his chest cavity is that, if Shane has kept so many secrets for so long, if he's lied about so much, what else has he lied about? He's wondering if he even meant it when he told Ryan he loved him last night, or if he thought it was just the easy way out. 

Shane's making jokes with the driver, jokes that Ryan doesn't quite catch and then he's looking over, his whole face smiling and he searches easily for Ryan's reaction. Like Ryan's reaction means something. He watches the way the grin drops off Shane's face as he realises he wasn't even paying attention.

It makes Ryan's rotting heart drop into the pit of his stomach in a swirl of guilt and fondness and he decides there's no way Shane was lying, there's too much emotion in the rusted gold of his eyes for him to be faking the way he feels, the way he acts. It's too real, and sure, Shane's generally a good actor, but he isn't that good. 

"Sorry I- I think I'm half asleep, what did you say?"

Shane's lips turn up into the softest smile he's ever seen, a hint of concern in his expression as he says, "nothing, it doesn't matter, we'll get you into bed when we get back, huh buddy? Someone needs their beauty sleep," he turns and says the last part to the driver.

He thinks it's meant to sound patronising - the driver certainly chuckles - but it's so soft and warm and genuine that Ryan gets the ridiculous urge to cry, but he's not going to start sobbing in the back of an overpriced cab because Shane Madej teased him, that would be ridiculous. (Even if the teasing was far too fond.)

When they get back to Shane's the man himself proclaims that he's going for a shower, leaving Ryan to stand awkwardly in the hallway with nothing to do.

It feels rude to just crawl into bed (no matter how badly he wants to) and besides he'd at least have to brush his teeth first and that's not an option right now. He also thinks it's a little ridiculous that it's barely late evening and he's so desperate to crawl into bed, but he knows Shane is tired too.

He does the only other thing he wants to do while he waits. Which is to make the coffee he's so desperately craving - they both own the same brand of coffee, but somehow it always tastes better at Shane's and he thinks he might be developing a mild addiction.

However coffee is a bad idea, he won't sleep tonight if he drinks it so he settles on the next best thing, tea. And much to his chagrin the only tea Shane has stocked is 'roasted dandelion root', it just goes to solidify in Ryan's mind that Shane isn't human. No human could willingly drink something that fowl, Ryan refuses to believe it.

Apart from him, apparently, because he needs something warm and soothing to drink. You know that feeling when your really tired, and you drink some tea or hot cocoa and it just seems to seep into your bones? He wants that sensation of comfort, and Shane doesn't have any cocoa or marshmallows in his cupboards, like the demon (vampire) he is.

He figures he should probably make some for Shane as well, so he does.

Ryan's sipping on his too-hot mug of dandelion tea (it's a struggle, but he's getting through it, he might get it all down him if he manages to drink it fast enough that the burn outweighs the flavour) when Shane steps out from the hallway in sweatpants. Just. Sweatpants. He's rubbing a towel through his hair as he looks up to meet Ryan's eyes, apparently perturbed by Ryan's stunned silence.

It's just, Ryan doesn't know what to say. He knows he saw Shane shirtless yesterday but he still feels speechless. All he can't seem to think is _look at him_, and it sounds far too fond even in his own head.

He's struck by how domestic it is, for Shane to step out of the shower in sweats while Ryan makes him tea. Although their routine has been weirdly domestic for a while now, so he's not sure his shock is entirely justified.

Shane must think his silence means something else because he looks down at himself and pulls a soured expression that makes Ryan's stomach churn, "I can- I'll go put on a shirt, " he mutters instead of making a joke about _"the goods"_ like Ryan half expects.

It hits Ryan that Shane must think he is uncomfortable seeing him like this and that's so far from the truth it's laughable, but Ryan doesn't feel like laughing.

In an effort to stop Shane before he runs away and comes stumbling back in with a shirt, he slams the mug in his hands down on the counter a little harder than necessary, causing the content to splash out and up, coating both his hand and the counter. To be fair, it does get Shane's attention.

To keep that attention he quickly walks - stumbles - over to where Shane is leaning against the door frame and presses his dry hand firmly on the centre of his chest.

His fingers splay out along the scar tissue there in a way Ryan thinks he'd like to get a picture of. There's just something about the contrast of his own skin against the soft pink of the scar that makes his film-nerd brain go haywire.

But Shane's there towering above him, exhaling shakily and blinking owlishly in his direction and he knows now isn't the time to pull out his phone and snap a photo.

"Don't, " Ryan mutters, because he realises he hasn't said anything and he must look a little strange, "you don't need to I want to- I mean I don't _want_ to look, that's weird but I-"

Ryan spots the exact moment the corner of Shane's lips turn up in a smirk before he asks, "can't get enough of the goods, huh Bergara?" _Ah, there it is._ And Ryan doesn't know whether he wants to punch him or kiss him but no, he definitely knows. _Kiss him then, what are you waiting for?_

"Shut up, Shane."

Shane grins, big and wide and Ryan knows exactly what's coming _don't say it, don't say it, don't say-_ "make me."

Ryan groans dramatically, but he can't quite keep the grin off his face, "seriously?"

"What? That's one of my best lines!"

"I feel like I'm in a shitty Romcom!"

"Are you gonna kiss me or not? Times ticking Bergara."

"Jesus Christ, I'm in love with a jackass," Ryan huffs instead of answering, looking anywhere but Shane's face.

"One, didn't you already know that? And two, we are doing this whole thing so backwards, " Shane starts, resting one of his hands on Ryan's shoulder to keep his attention, maybe to stop him from running away "confessing our love to each other before even kissing? What kind of idiots do that?"

"Us, we do that."

Shane just grins fondly down at him, and Ryan feels strangely anxious. He's wanted this to happen for so long that now he's got the opportunity it feels impossible to just lean up those few inches and close the gap between them.

He looks down, away from Shane's entrancing eyes and back to his hand on Shane's chest, he flexes his fingers against the flesh there just to watch Shane's skin move with them.

"Ry?" Shane asks eventually, voice a soft whisper he barely catches.

Ryan swallows. "Hey, " he mumbles, just as quiet as he glances up into Shane's eyes. His free hand - the one now sticky with herbal smelling tea - reaches up to cup around the edge of Shane's neck, thumb stroking the line of his jaw and the skin below it.

Shane shivers, "hi,", he lets out on a shuddery exhale, because his brain seems to have gone offline and he can't think of much else to say. What else is there to say? 

Ryan sighs, biting his lip as he stutters out, "can I- can I kiss you?" and he feels like little 8th grader Ryan who asked to kiss his girlfriend for the first time and had no clue what he was doing.

Shane smiles like he's about to tease him and Ryan might choke on his own tongue if he does, but he doesn't, he just nods, a tiny, jerky movement to suggests he's just as nervous as Ryan. Which is stupid really, he chastises himself, it's just a kiss.

And yet can't remember the last time he'd felt this overwhelmed, because Ryan is stood there touching him with those big beady eyes on his and his heart pounding so fast he's worried it might actually break a rib. It's probably not a good idea to focus on that though, or the way he can feel said pulse through the thumb on his neck and the fingertips on his chest, it's too much, if he thinks about it.

So instead, he focuses on the way Ryan's eyelashes flutter shut and fan out across his cheeks as he leans up onto his tiptoes. He thinks about the flush of Ryan's lips as he leans down to meet him and his own eyelids slide shut. 

Then it's happening, there's the press of Ryan's lips against his, slightly chapped and yet still so soft, the warmth brought about by the thrum of his blood contrasting with the cold press of his own. 

He knows that to say the whole world seems to slip away around them, leaving just them in this moment alone is a cliché worthy of only the cheesiest romance novels and yet, as his hands come up to cup Ryan's face, it's the only way he can think to put the experience into words. 

Ryan's thumb is still there, rubbing idly along his jaw as his fingers curl around the back of his neck. His other hand is still pressed firmly into his chest, a grounding presence as Ryan's lips are moving against his. It's soft and slow and Shane could stay like this forever but he realises that, unlike him, Ryan actually _needs_ to breathe so, however reluctantly, he pulls back.

Ryan's as he presses their foreheads together, hot breath fanning over Shane's lips. The stupidly big grin taking over his face mirrors Shane's own and Shane just can't stop staring into the timber of his eyes.

Then both Ryan's arms are hooking around the back for his neck and tugging him back down, it's faster, messier, all smashing lips and clashing teeth and good good _good_, so good. 

And Ryan's tongue is in Shane's mouth, he's not exactly sure when it got there but he's not going to complain, not when it's flicking against the back of his teeth like that. His heartbeat is ever stronger, against his lips, at the nape of his neck where Ryan's fingers are tugging at the short hairs there, in the tongue taking over his mouth like it belongs, pounding in his ears, like Ryan's pulse is his own. 

It's intoxicating, too much and not enough, he wants to drown in it, and he can't express how _warm_ Ryan's lips are, how amazing they feel against his own. Listen, Shane has kissed a lot of people in his time and this kiss right here? With Ryan? It's enough to get lost in.

But then Ryan is pulling back _fast_ and- _yelping!?_

Shane's eyes snap open and his brain can't seem to catch up, _what's going on? What went wrong? Did he realise who he was kissing?_ Then he meets Ryan's wide-eyed glare, catches the way his hand covers his mouth like kissing Shane burnt his lips and- _oh, _that's blood he can taste.

_cholera, kurwa, cholera, shit, fuck, shit, _that wasn't supposed to happen. He doesn't know how he didn't realise, because the dull throb of his fangs is there and the blood is like a weight on his tongue.

"Ryan, I-" 

Ryan moves his hand from where he's covering his mouth and Shane feels like he must be missing something because he looks concerned, like he's worried about _Shane _and not about the actual blood probably spilling over his tongue. _How deep did I bite?_

"It's fine, Shane really I'm fine it's just a little cut I should've been more careful."

_You should've been more careful???_

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, partly because his eyes must be red now and he doesn't want to risk scaring Ryan any more than necessary and partly because he'd like to pretend just for a few seconds that he's anywhere but here right now.

_How could you do that without even realising? Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!_

He blinks back to reality when he hears Ryan stepping closer, "Ry I'm so sorry," he starts, and it's not enough but it's all he can manage to get out, but Ryan's gaze isn't scared or angry. _Why isn't he angry?_

"Hey," Ryan murmurs, as he approaches Shane like a startled animal, causing Shane back up into the door frame on instinct, "I know that you're probably having one of your internal angsty vampire meltdowns but my mouth tastes like blood and I'd like it not to."

Shane makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat because _what the fuck is going on right now?_

"You have your weird magic heal-y spit right?"

"Erm, yeah?" He answers, brain struggling to keep up.

"And I think the quickest way for that to work is if my tongue is down your throat."

Shane just blinks, Ryan wonders if the words_ 'system malfunction'_ are currently flashing in front of his eyes. 

"Jesus," Ryan huffs and Shane only now realises how close he is again, with his warm hand against Shane's cheek, how did he miss that? "what I'm saying, you buffoon, is that I think you should kiss me again."

Shane doesn't consider himself a strong enough man to resist that, which doesn't inspire much confidence in his ability to not tear Ryan's tongue out of his mouth.

So when he gets pulled down he goes willingly, despite the alarm ringing in his head. He's got the pressure of Ryan's mouth back against his own and the tang of his blood spreading across his tastebuds that's near impossible to resist - but he's not going to make the same mistake twice, at least not tonight.

As soon as he's sure there are no puncture holes left on Ryan's tongue he pushes him away and now Shane is the one panting. Unneeded breath ragged with the strain of holding back.

"Can we just- can we go to bed now because I can't-"

"Taking me to bed already? Jeez, talk about full speed ahead."

"That's not what I meant and you know it you asshole," Shane scowls jokingly instead of flirting back like he wants to, he can't do this tonight, he just can't.

"Yeah I know, I just get joy out of teasing you big guy."

They are crawling into bed when Ryan mumbles, "you know I'm not upset right? Or scared?"

_No, but you should be. I am._

"I know Ry,"

"So you'll stop beating yourself up about it?"

"I'm not-" he can feel Ryan's glare before he sees it, "fine," he sighs, because he doesn't want to argue - even if he knows he won't stop either way.

"Thank you."

Ryan curls up against his chest and quickly falls into a soundless sleep, Shane doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, is accidentally-biting-while-kissing and overused trope? Yes. Do I care? No, it's GOOD and I love it. 
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I can't just keep it in my drafts and complain to myself about how much I hate it forever so here you go!
> 
> I'd love to see any recommendations about what you guys want to see in this fic. I have a basic guideline for where I want it to go but I'd love to squeeze in some suggestions! (Help me)


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